Been There, Done That by Carol Snow

easy to get admitted to a dorm, you know. They’re all shut up for the season, you know.” Actually, I’d stumbled across a dormitory that had its main door propped open. I tiptoed into the foyer, peeked into a room and scurried out before anyone could see me.
    I scrubbed the polish off my two completed toes with unnecessary violence. My voice was getting high and tight in a way Tim undoubtedly recognized from our past. (“I was counting on you to pick up the eggplant for the recipe, you know.” Or, “We’re supposed to be at the party at six, you know, and it’s already six-thirty.”)
    “I know,” he said, slow and low. In my naïve youth, I had taken this stock response to mean, “You are right; I am irrational and mean and ever so lucky to have you in my life.” Older now, my interpretation skills had improved. A closer reading: “Just shut up, already.”
    “I don’t see any mention of the admissions guy,” he said. “What was his name?”
    “Archer.”
    “Right. I kind of assumed you’d meet with him.”
    “I’ve already met with him. I didn’t have any other questions.”
    “You could have asked—” He stopped and sighed. “Oh, never mind. I just thought you’d come up with a little more than this.”
    Back in the living room, I found my shoulder bag and dug around till I found my notebook. The Mercer Bugle , that thin freebie newspaper, came out with it. I scanned my handwritten notes, looking for any worthwhile tidbit that I may have neglected in my e-mail to Tim. Nothing. Trying to eliminate all traces of shrillness from my voice, I said, “I can’t just go up to a random someone—custodial worker, dean—and ask if they know anything about a prostitution ring. Maybe someone else could. Maybe I’m just not right for this assignment.”
    “You’re fine for this assignment,” he cooed, assuming I was looking for his assurances when, really, I just wanted to be fired. “This is a change of direction for you, that’s all. You’ll catch on.”
    I shoved the notebook back into my briefcase. The newspaper was still in my hand. I was looking at the back page, I realized, the classifieds. My eye fell on the ads in the personals section. (I read newspaper personals more often than I care to admit, though I’ve never gone so far as to answer one.)
    And there it was: Need some excitement in your life? Let a hot college girl show you a good time. Call Chantal . . .
    “Tim,” I said slowly, “I think I’ve got something.”

eight
    I wore a denim mini skirt to the airport. Tim had on jeans, so I figured I’d made the right call. I sensed some ambivalence on his part, though; he’d paired the denim with a white office shirt and tie. He probably thought that made him look journalistic. Instead, it showed just how deep his problems with commitment ran. He couldn’t even commit to a look.
    “You’re wearing contacts again,” I remarked when he climbed into my car.
    “You made me self-conscious the other day,” he said.
    “I didn’t mean to,” I said, although I was pleased that I had.
    On the drive out to Mercer, we didn’t talk about the investigation at all. We didn’t even talk about our jobs. Instead, we caught each other up on gossip: marriages, babies and divorces. It amazed me that so many of my contemporaries had seen marriages through to their ends. It made them seem older than me, somehow.
    We brought each other up-to-date on our families. His parents were still in upstate New York, while mine had moved from Connecticut to Scottsdale, Arizona, a short plane ride away from my as-yet-childless but presumably fertile brother and sister-in-law in Colorado. Meanwhile, while they awaited grandparenthood, my parents entertained themselves with a succession of exotic tours. Last month it was the Great Wall of China. In the fall they were planning a barge trip down the Rhine.
    We stopped for burgers on the road and arrived in the town of Mercer with an hour to kill before our