Think I Want to Twist the Plot This Time

Part 2

"God, no." He shakes his head, reaching forward to take another sip of his drink. "Theoretical physics."

"Oh, right, because that's far less complicated." She watches him smile again, entertained by her comment.

"Sure," he surmises, shrugging. "Philosophy is rooted in nothing but conjecture; physics is rooted in numbers—it's factual, abstract, even, while contemplating ideas beyond what we already know. It's like... hearing the notes, without entirely understanding the sheet music before you."

"So, for example... like if the light that comes from stars in the sky actually come from dying stars millions of light years away." Barbie tries to remember what little she can from anything Physicist Barbie has said, but as a human, some of her knowledge is starting to fade. His analogy, though, carries such poetic beauty that she's finding her words a lot easier. "And the brighter the star, the more intense the death. You've never seen a dying star, but you know they're out there in the universe, living with the rest of us."

"More or less." But she watches Oppenheimer blink, notices the pause he takes before talking, not expecting her answer. Has she... impressed him? "But theory can only get you so far."

"True, without proof, it's just... an idea with merit." Right now Barbie's theorizing if they keep talking like this, the night is going to end on much more than a simple chat. But she likes that they're conversing about hypotheticals and basic physics. It's better than spending the whole night trying to find someone else's For You Page on Tik Tok amusing as they show her mundane video after mundane video.

"Where on Earth did you come from?" Oppenheimer is fully facing her now, inclining closer. Barbie tries to read those blue eyes that seem to already know the answer to his question, like he knows she's somehow not from his time.

"I told you," she replies lowly, nervously, "I'm from LA."

"Rhetorical question." He sighs, clicking his tongue. Now he only turns away to exhale smoke, but Barbie's sure he can feel her eyes on his lips when he does it, because she's not just thinking about them wrapped around a cigarette. "So few of us would be so bold as to wear pink from head to toe unless they know they can pull it off."

"What can I say? I know my color." Not that she chose this outfit, but if she feels this good, might as well embrace it.

"So, fashion expert, intuitive student, former actress, budding philosopher... is there anything you can't do?" Oppenheimer asks, amused.

She pauses, really trying to ponder the question. For years, Barbie knew she could do or be anything: physicist, writer, president, even. Barbies had few limitations, and even now, she recalls at least a bit of every occupation any Barbie has ever tried, at least in spirit. Her eyes shift back to her seltzer water, cupped tight between her palms. "I suppose I'm not very good at drinking."

At that, the band announces their return, starting up with something upbeat. Barbie finally turns her gaze from Oppenheimer and watches a few couples smile and get up, starting to occupy the dance floor. Barbie loves the way humans dance, imperfectly, but with the same joy she feels when she's choreographed with her friends. They bump into each other and hit steps offbeat, laugh the entire time as skirts twirl in muted colors. She thinks about dancing with him, those long fingers encircling her waist, her hands on his shoulders, foreheads pressed together. He's probably a terrible dancer, and she doesn't care.

There it is again, the dryness in her mouth, the flushing, the tight fluttering in her stomach and legs at these thoughts... Barbie downs the rest of her seltzer water. "I'll be right back. Just need to use the powder room." She hurries out of her seat toward the back of the club before she can gauge his reaction—no, she's not going to stand him up like that other woman did, she just... needs a minute.