26 comments/ 17223 views/ 15 favorites The Pareto Efficient Relationship By: LettersFromTatyana This story was inspired by the title of the book, Spousonomics: Using Economics to Master Love, Marriage, and Dirty Dishes. I haven't read the book yet, so I can't comment on any similarities between the two works. -------------- Michael shifted beneath his shoulder bag as he checked his watch. He'd done so at least a dozen times during the five minutes he'd been in line. Seeing the time did little to help his mood; he had to be back in the hotel lobby in ten minutes, and still had to check in and change. The hotel's heat was on despite the unseasonably warm temperatures, and he was sweating beneath the layers he'd donned that morning. Worse than his discomfort, however, was the fact that he might be late meeting his sister for dinner. As much the thought stung—and it did; he hated being late—he had to admit that a small part of him was enjoying his time in line. A tall, red-haired woman had been at the desk the entire time he'd been in the lobby. She and the front desk clerk were arguing about... something. Michael couldn't make out a single word of their conversation above the hum of the lobby's Muzak, but he was enjoying the redhead's performance. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in her body language told him she was orchestrating the conversation. The clerk may have thought he was the woman's equal, but Michael suspected that, like a chess master, the woman knew exactly what she was doing. She was probably dozens of steps ahead of the poor man, and was now backing him into a corner of his own making. Just as the realization crossed Michael's mind, the clerk faltered and wrinkled his brow. The woman's spine stiffened; it was a subtle shift in her stance, but in that instant she seemed even taller than she had just moments before. The prospect of seeing her triumph sent a strange sort of thrill down Michael's body. You've got him, he thought. You've been playing rope-a-dope with him this whole time—I knew it!—and now you've got him. Pounce before he has a chance to deflect or regroup. Come on, woman, go in for the verbal kill! A silly grin spread across Michael's face as the woman leaned across the desk to say a few quiet words. The clerk blanched and picked up the phone. Moments later, the woman left with a second man, though not before she gave the clerk a genuine smile and a profuse thank-you. Michael stared after her retreating back. He shook his head a few times as he approached the desk. Why, after realizing he might be late, had he relished the idea of watching the woman argue? Why had he felt a strange sense of disappointment when the argument ended? Given the time, he should've been thrilled the two had reached a resolution. "What the heck was that about?" Michael forced a laugh as he addressed the clerk behind the desk. "We're having a conference here this week. Let's see... here it is." The clerk pulled out a large piece of card paper. "'The Future of Alternative Energy, with this year's special topic, How to Make the Future Happen Now.'" The clerk rolled his eyes at Michael before continuing. "Of course they chose the week of Earth Day for the conference. As you might expect, it's attracted some crazies. I argued with that woman for close to ten minutes about why we can't allow her hippie friends to run extension cords through our garage to charge their cars. In the end, I passed her off to our Head of Maintenance and Facilities, just like she'd wanted the entire time. I was trying to spare the poor man, but well, let him deal with her, you know? I mean...." The clerk's eyes bulged. "I mean, we welcome all guests at the hotel, and are thrilled to play host to such a respected conference." The clerk paused again, collecting himself before plastering on a fake smile. "Welcome to the historic Donatello Hotel in beautiful Kansas City, Missouri. Are you checking in today, sir? Yes? And did you have a pleasant trip?" -------------- Michael wrinkled his nose at the mug of stale, weak coffee in his hands. The hotel served terrible coffee, but he was desperate; like any addict, he needed his morning fix. "Hello? Excuse me, Mr. Andrews?" Michael turned to see the redhead. The long-legged, master-arguer, maybe-crazy redhead. He couldn't remember what she'd worn the day before—jeans and a t-shirt, perhaps?—but today she was dressed in a fitted blouse, a short bottle-green jacket, pinstripe charcoal dress pants, and a pair of black, patent leather platform pumps. Her clothing hinted at curves he hadn't seen the day before, but the biggest change was her hair. It had been pulled into a loose ponytail yesterday, but it was down now, and styled into a sleek cut that ended just above her shoulders. He couldn't help but stare. Her hair wasn't one of those tamer or quasi-red shades, like auburn or strawberry-blond. No, this woman's hair was a true, fiery orange-red. It shimmered under the room's bright lights, yet still looked soft. He had to tamp down a sudden urge to reach his hand out and touch it. "Yes?" He glanced at the lanyard that hung around her neck. "Ah, Ms. Clemmons, is it?" "Call me Goldie." As she smiled, he noticed that her face had a considerable amount of large, brown freckles. Her narrow nose was slightly crooked, and sat beneath a pair of plain gray eyes. She was unusual looking, but not unattractive. She must have sensed something off in his expression, for her smile widened as she continued to speak. "Yes, I realize it's an unusual name. To save you the effort of having to work some awkward questions into the conversation, no, my parents weren't big Goldie Hawn fans. I grew up on a commune of sorts in Vermont, and since my hippie parents assumed I'd be blond like all of my older sisters they went ahead and named me Goldenrod." She tugged on a piece of her hair. "I fooled them, though," she said before extending her hand. After countless introductions at conferences and committees, he'd become an expert at assessing a person's character based on their handshake. Goldie's grasp was firm, but it wasn't a death grip. Her skin wasn't clammy or hot, and while her hand wasn't perfectly perpendicular to the floor, it was open by only a slight amount. She didn't slouch or shift her weight from one foot to the other, she looked him straight in the eye, and she flashed him a polite, friendly smile. She was calm but not dull, confident but not arrogant, friendly but not clingy. She was the perfect conference interlocutor. That must be why his hand felt so... tingly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Goldie. I'm Michael." "It's nice to finally meet you, Michael. I believe you know my co-worker, Colin Boyle?" Who? Before he could clear up the confusion, she pressed on. "When I mentioned to Colin that I was making the trip down for the conference, he insisted I introduce myself. And since it appears we're on the same panel this afternoon, I thought it would be a good idea to introduce myself now." "Oh? What's the topic of your paper?" "Oh, I don't have a formal paper per se. I'll be commenting on the other presentations in the Carbon Reduction Policies Panel, including yours, but I'll primarily be speaking about some of the policy research my organization has been doing. We've compiled broad categories of strategies municipal and county governments take to curb reliance on greenhouse gas emitting energy sources." He raised an eyebrow. "I believe my paper identifies the best strategy to reduce carbon emissions, including those from energy generation. Economists have shown, time and again, that the most efficient policy is a simple, federally imposed Pigouvian carbon tax. There is no efficient role for municipal or county government." Her gray eyes flared. She placed the mug she'd been holding on a nearby table, and clasped her hands together in front of her. "That may be, but the federal government has proved incapable of passing meaningful climate change legislation, and such a tax will not be in place for the foreseeable future. The dysfunction at the federal level leaves thousands of responsible municipal and county governments across the country without a workable system to improve their energy consumption." She straightened as she drew in a deep breath. Though he had seen her only from the rear yesterday, he recognized the move from the desk. Her eyes shone as she weaved in and out of the finer points of multi-level and multi-jurisdictional government strategy. She wasn't crazy; that much was clear. She made sense, though she made a few small jumps in logic he didn't agree with. Part of him itched to argue with her, to see how she'd respond, but for now he was content to watch and listen. Just as handshakes can be informative, so, too, can argument styles. She wasn't condescending or patronizing in her vocabulary or structure, and her argument was clearly one that had been informed by multiple viewpoints; she wasn't a mouthpiece for an organized interest group or party. He liked that. Her closing remarks drew him back from his thoughts. "So as long as Congress continues to be bogged down in partisan politics, municipalities and counties will be forced to address the pressing issue of climate change on their own, and hopefully, as I outlined earlier, in a manner that is not only environmentally sustainable, but also socially just and economically beneficial." He stared at her, dumbfounded. Why had he thought she was just 'not unattractive' mere moments ago? Her hair, her eyes, the figure he'd glimpsed beneath her unbuttoned jacket when she'd placed her mug on the table... she was gorgeous. Even better, she was smart and confident, and an excellent debater. Her smile faded into a puzzled expression. "Did you follow what I was saying? Or was my argument illogical in some way?" "Huh? Oh, er, yes. I mean no. I mean, yes, I followed, and no, it wasn't that illogical." He wanted to kick himself for suddenly being nervous around her; he couldn't remember the last time he'd stuttered so much in a single sentence. Still, at least he hadn't said something along the lines of, I have no clue what you just said. I was too busy developing a crazy and totally out of character conference crush on you, because you're confident and smart and sexy and God you have nice hair. "Good, I think." She gave him a curious smile. "Well, I'm really looking forward to this afternoon's panel. It's been over ten years since I took my introductory economics classes and I didn't quite understand all of your equations, but it seemed like your paper largely focused on national policy. While perhaps some policies are best implemented at the federal level, have you come across any viable, local level strategies in your research?" Michael paused. He'd never been one for lies. He just hoped she wouldn't walk away when he told her the truth. "Actually, the majority of my work concerns monetary policy in high-inflation or otherwise unstable developing countries. Carbon is a bit of a blip for me. I'm afraid I'm much more interested in monetary policy than I am in energy policy." She'd reached for her mug—giving him another lovely view of the curves of her hips, waist, and breasts beneath her jacket—but she stilled at his words. She blinked several times, as if trying to process what he'd said. "So why are you here?" She straightened as she stared at him. "If you... hold on. Do you mean to say you don't care about energy policy?" Her voice rose at the end of her sentence to an unnaturally high pitch. Several people around them glanced their way, and he could have sworn that a hush fell over a few of the nearest groups. His lips twisted into a wry smile. "I didn't say I was uninterested. I just said it wasn't my primary research area." The skeptical look on her face told him she hadn't believed a word he'd said. "I'm interested in the subject, though I admit that's mostly because I don't want some insane anti-growth bill passed in Congress. I wrote a paper, I was invited to the conference, and I thought it would be interesting to see how others are using my research in their work." She was still giving him that skeptical look. She could tell he wasn't telling the whole truth. "Alright, alright. To be honest, I came for the barbecue. Oh, and to have an all-expense paid trip to visit my sister and nephews; they're nine and ten, and for some reason I'm their favorite uncle. Plus I'm drawing down a very nice grant right now; it expires at the end of the month, and if I don't use it, then poof! It's gone. So yes, I'm interested in energy policy, and yes, I wrote the paper, and yes, I'm curious to see how my paper is being used, but had this conference been in any other city I probably wouldn't have come." "Hang on." Her eyes narrowed in accusation as she looked up at him. "Your nametag says Michael Andrews. Who are you?" "I am. Michael Andrews, that is." He paused. "But I'm afraid I don't know a Colin. Michael Andrews isn't an uncommon name. Perhaps you are looking for another Michael Andrews?" He tried to sound as apologetic as possible. "Colin Boyle, the President of the Great Lakes Alternative Energy Institute, in Chicago. He's my boss," she whispered. "So... so you aren't the Michael Andrews who works for the City of Chicago?" "No. I'm afraid I'm the Michael Andrews who works in the Economics Department at the University of Chicago." "Chicago?" Her eyes bulged, and she sounded incredulous. "As in, the Chicago school of economics? The birthplace of insane monetary policy? And awful Latin American development policies? That University of Chicago?" "I'm afraid so." He stifled the urge to laugh at the horrified look on her face. Her reaction to his department wasn't something people usually put into words, but it always amused him when someone did. "If it makes you feel any better, I get calls for the other Michael Andrews pretty frequently. I just didn't expect to see someone else from Chicago here, looking for the other Michael Andrews from Chicago." When she continued to stare at him in silence, he pressed on. "I meet a lot of people at conferences, on speaking tours, in Washington... I assumed I'd met this Colin Boyle person at an event of some sort, and I'd just forgotten his name. I'm sorry if I've caused any confusion. I didn't mean to deceive you, really." Goldie opened her mouth to reply, but a man approached before she managed to speak. Recovering somewhat, she introduced Michael to the man, a bio-chemist from the University of North Carolina. Michael thought about excusing himself from the conversation but stopped when he saw Goldie hold her index finger up to him. He was flattered; she still wanted to talk to him? Did she want to talk about his paper? Maybe she wanted to talk about monetary policy; that would be nice. Or, better yet, was she interested in him for non-academic reasons? He almost snorted at his last thought. No, after his employment revelation, she was probably adding him to her top ten list of most hated people in Chicago. Michael tried to follow the bio-chemist's words as he waited for Goldie, but it was no use. He'd never been much of a scientist. He mind wandered as he glanced around the room. He was thankful he'd decided to go with dress pants and a button-down shirt. He normally wore suits to conferences, but he'd had a feeling this would be a casual event. He'd been right; while he and Goldie were dressed in business casual attire, quite a few people were in jeans. He didn't care what people wore, but he wondered what some of the older faculty members in his department would say if they were here. He didn't have to think long; their words would probably include something along the lines of, "dirty, pinko-commie hippies not showing respect for their own subject matter," a phrase one of his frequent co-authors had once used when describing a group of Berkeley labor economists. His colleagues had roared with laughter when he'd told them about his trip to the conference, and many had predicted a frustrating few days for him. It wasn't that they were necessarily against the positions he outlined in his paper; like the majority of economists, many if not all of his colleagues were members of the so-called "Pigou Club," and thought that a carbon tax was the best way to account for the negative externalities associated with carbon emissions. They just didn't see the point of going to a conference full of, "irrational Marxist academics who don't have a lick of common sense among them," as one emeritus professor had put it yesterday. So why had he come here against the advice of his mentors? Because you're bored with your life, a voice in the back of his head whispered. He was about to argue with that little voice but stopped when he realized that it was true. He was bored. Some small part of him must have known it for years, but he had never voiced the realization, even to himself. He was a thirty-eight-year-old tenured economics professor. He'd graduated from Harvard with majors in math and economics, gone straight from his undergraduate studies to graduate school, and started his job at Chicago before he'd even finished his dissertation. He loved his work—he couldn't imagine a better profession—but every year, he went to the same conferences, meetings, and retreats. Every semester, he saw the same people, taught the same classes, and mentored what seemed like dozens of cookie-cutter graduate students. He even wrote papers on the same main topic every day. It wasn't that his non-professional life was without joy, either. On the contrary, Chicago was a great city, with world-class food, music, museums, theater, and sports teams. He'd just moved into an apartment with amazing city and lake views, and after years of training and dithering he'd run the Chicago Marathon last year. But neither his professional life nor his extra-curricular activities squelched the general sense of restlessness he felt. He supposed he should have noticed the restlessness a few years ago, when the euphoria he'd expected to feel after getting through the torturous tenure process hadn't materialized. He'd broken up with a long-term girlfriend, an economist at Northwestern, the same week, but hadn't felt particularly upset about the end of the relationship, either. He'd just felt... flat. Rather than try and figure out the reasons behind his lack of emotions, he'd thrown himself into his work. He'd spent the next six months sequestered in his office, reading hundreds of articles on a subject he'd known virtually nothing about save for a single Environmental Economics course he'd taken as an undergraduate. The result had been a systematic review of papers on carbon emission reduction strategies. It was a glorified literature review, it was completely unrelated to the work he did on a regular basis, and—though he hated to admit it, even to himself—it remained his most cited work. It was also why he was here, attending this conference. He'd wanted to do something a little unusual, and on a whim had agreed to come to the conference the day the organizers had called. "Woolgathering, Dr. Andrews?" Goldie's words jolted him back to reality. She'd found him staring at the wall, his lips contorted into a sardonic smile. "Apparently." He gave her a sheepish grin. "Didn't I tell you to call me Michael? Dr. Mike Andrews is my father, a dentist." She raised an eyebrow. "So you did. But that's when I thought you were the other Michael Andrews. I thought we might have to introduce ourselves again. I'm still Goldie, by the way." "And I'm still Michael, and it's a pleasure to meet you again." The tingly feeling was there as shook hands again, and he noticed a twinkle in her gray eyes that he hadn't seen before. They were quite pretty, set against her freckly face and fiery hair. "So, what exactly does he do?" The Pareto Efficient Relationship "Mmmm? Oh, Doug? He's a brilliant bio-chemist. He was just telling me about...." She stopped, and gave him a guilty look. "Between you and me, I haven't a clue what he does. I may have majored in biology as an undergraduate, but I passed chemistry by the skin of my teeth. I can't really follow once he starts talking about chemical reactions, and it's impossible to interrupt once he gets going. I usually ask his wife to paraphrase for me; I'll have to find her later." She sent him a teasing smile. "Why? Were you not paying attention, Professor?" Something about her smile and the way she'd said the word professor threw him mentally off balance. "Um, no. I'm afraid not. Math is fine, but in general I stuck with the social sciences in college. Then again, I suppose many here would say I stuck with the pseudosciences." He laughed, but sobered as she nodded at him with a perplexed expression on her face. "Rrright." Goldie surveyed him for several long moments before giving her head a little shake. "Anyway, I'm in charge of logistics for the panel. I'm hoping to load any PowerPoint presentations beforehand, so we can start on time; I hate it when panels start late. If you're using PowerPoint, could you give me your presentation on a jump drive at lunch?" "Sure. I'll uh, I'll make sure to do that." Goldie nodded, and then turned to join Doug and, presumably, Doug's wife across the room. For the second time in less than a day, Michael stared after her retreating back, trying to shake some sense into his head. ---------------- Goldie was the last to speak at the afternoon panel. Michael was impressed; it was clear that the organizers had saved the best speaker for the end of the day. While he was a typical academic—dry and somewhat dull, pulling many of his sentences directly from his article—she was a firebrand. He could tell she'd based her speech on some prepared remarks or themes, but she'd managed to weave multiple nuggets from each of the four panelists that had gone before her into her speech. Even more amazingly, she'd done it all—the tone, the words, the content, the poise—while making sense, with virtually no stutters or awkward pauses, and with no written notes in front of her. He didn't agree with everything she'd said—her policy recommendations included far too many regulations—but she was convincing. He'd even found himself nodding along to a few statements he'd normally eviscerate. He marveled as she arrived at her closing remarks. She'd been looking around the room during her talk, no doubt gauging the audience's reactions to her words; he'd noticed that she'd returned to several key themes and catchphrases a number of times, after they'd received a favorable reception the first time around. She had a politician's knack for words, an activist's passion, and an academic's knowledge of facts. A smart, confident, gorgeous redhead, one who could make a Chicago economist want to increase government regulation. She was dangerous. And intriguing. He wasn't surprised that she received thunderous applause after her closing remarks, or that a number of audience members dogged her heels as they headed towards reception room for the evening's cocktail hour. "So, how come you aren't hanging out with the other economists?" He turned to see Goldie standing before him with a beer in her hand. He laughed. "Well, they're environmental economists. They don't exactly like me." "No?" "No. I mean, we agree on most of what I presented here, of course, but, well... as you pointed out earlier, it's the entire Chicago school of economics thing. What can I say; they've heard the rumors about how we eat small children for breakfast. It's a key part of those Latin American development policies." She stared at him, her face expressionless. He couldn't believe he'd made such a nerdy joke in front of her again. Why the hell had he done that? He licked his lips, wondering if she would make an excuse and leave. Or if he would have to make an excuse and leave. She didn't. Instead, she curved her lips into a smile. "For breakfast? I'd always heard you eat them alongside the cucumber sandwiches you have with your formal afternoon tea." He sighed in relief, and gave her an apologetic smile. "No, I'm afraid you've been misinformed. That's the folks over at the LSE—the London School of Economics. We prefer ours with breakfast at Chicago. It really starts the day off right." She smacked her palm to her forehead. "Of course. Silly me, how could I have mixed the two schools up." She paused, and gave him a mischievous smile. "Being from the University of Chicago, I assume you only consume children from countries we have free trade agreements with?" "Absolutely. NAFTA and CAFTA have really improved our supply of low-cost, tasty children. But I'm afraid they prefer Irish children in London; they still take Swift a little too seriously over there." He knew he was grinning like an idiot by the time she shook her head at him. "Believe it or not, I did come over to discuss food with you. Of the non-children variety, that is." "Oh?" "Yes. I'm going out with a few colleagues for dinner tonight. Doug and I are vegetarians—well, I'm a sort-of vegetarian—but I managed to find a restaurant that's known for their barbeque and has great veggie entrees, too. So... do you want to come with us? Or, oh... I forgot. You mentioned your sister and nephews earlier today. Are you visiting them this evening?" A vegetarian who found him a good barbecue place? One who remembered his sister and nephews? "I saw them last night, so I'd love to tag along." He paused, and then decided to go for broke. No use suppressing who he really was, right? After all, she'd still invited him to dinner after their children-for-breakfast discussion. "Especially if the menu includes small children livers, some fava beans, and a nice Chianti." "Great, I think it will be a fun group." She paused. "And I can't believe you made those jokes. Jonathan Swift and Silence of the Lambs in one conversation? You're terrible. You know that, don't you?" But she was smiling as she turned away. She shook her head from side to side as she walked across the room to catch Doug and his wife, and even glanced over her shoulder at him and bit her lip to suppress a laugh. His idiotic grin returned. She liked his bad jokes. ------------- Dinner made him feel like an eighteenth-century intellectual, one whom a dazzling, mysterious woman had invited to her exclusive salon. The fact that he was a last-minute addition didn't bother him; he was flattered she'd thought to include him. It was well past ten, and they'd since moved from the restaurant to a bar down the street from their hotel. There'd been six of them, but Doug and Elizabeth—the married bio-chemist couple from North Carolina—had left half an hour ago. "Well, I'm beat." Anna, an engineer, drained the last of her drink and reached for her sweater. "My panel's at eight tomorrow, so I should turn in. Any of you ready to head back?" "Yeah, I am." Clarke, a lawyer, stood. "Anna and I are on the same electrical grid panel tomorrow. Goldie, you heading back? Michael?" "Michael still has some beer left. I'll stay and keep him company." "Oh, you don't have to stay if you don't want to," Michael said as the other two said their goodbyes and headed towards the door. "No. It's fine." She smiled. "Besides, I have some left, too." "Right. So, what do you do for work? You spent most of the evening shepherding our conversation along, but never really said much about yourself or what you do." "I work for an alternative energy non-profit. It's sort of one part think tank, one part advocacy institution, and one part resource center. Most people who work there are really specialized, but I'm one of those, 'Jack of all trades, master of none' types. I tend to be the one sent to these things." He spluttered. "Master of none? You're quite the public speaker and debater, and you managed tonight's discussion like a true salonnière. I assumed you were a lawyer." "Me? A lawyer? God, no. My master's is in environmental science." She surveyed him above her glass as she took a sip. "So, how long are you going to be here?" "Today's Thursday, right? Until tomorrow afternoon. I grew up about an hour west of here in Lawrence, Kansas, and after my nephews get out of school tomorrow we're driving out to see my parents and my brother's family for the weekend. I fly back to Chicago on Sunday evening. What about you? What flight are you on?" "Flight? Oh, no. I took the train." He paused, his drink halfway to his mouth. "The train? You took the train from Chicago to Kansas City?" "Yes." He blinked several times, giving the words time to sink in. "Are you insane? That had to take... days." She pursed her lips. The fire in her eyes, the same one he had seen when she'd first talked to him about government policy that morning, was back. "It didn't take days. It only took about eight hours. I left after lunch, worked a half day on the train, and then read a book for the rest of the journey. It was quite pleasant, actually." "But... why the train? The flight from Chicago is only an hour and a half, and it's cheap. Why subject yourself to eight hours on a train? That's... that's irrational, Goldie." She put her drink down and glared at him. He was surprised to feel both a sense of foreboding and a surge of anticipation at the prospect of arguing with her. "The U.S. should have better passenger train service, but we'll never get it unless Amtrak sees the demand. I do my part. It may seem irrational to you, but it's completely rational to me." He barked out a laugh. It probably wasn't the best thing to do, but he couldn't help it. "That's ridiculous! The idea that one woman, riding from Chicago to Kansas City, just once, would have any impact on demand at all... statistically speaking, that's impossible. And, hold on, weren't you arguing with the front desk clerk about plug-in cars?" "Yes. As you noted, I can argue. I was the Vermont state champion in debating, and then went on to win a national title with the Yale team. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's debating. When there's an argument to be won, my friends turn to me." She shrugged before continuing in a clipped tone. "As for the rest, even if I don't make a difference, I have principles that guide my life. Environmental activism is more than a career. It's a lifestyle. It impacts everything from my mode of transportation to my meals, where I live, what I buy... everything." He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" "Yes." "What about the rest of us? Don't you think I have principles that guide my life?" She shrugged again. She didn't seem annoyed, but she seemed deflated, and almost disappointed in him. "I don't know. Do you?" He smiled. "Yes, and like you, they're directly linked to my career. I'm an economist. I model human and institutional behavior to help us understand the world around us. I use economic theories to analyze every situation I find myself in, and act accordingly. Travel behavior, my meals, where I live, what I buy... everything" She raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't believe me? Okay then. Um... I'm deeply suspicious of potlucks, cookie swaps, or any sort of meal sharing that occurs in a restaurant if the bill isn't being split down the middle." She laughed, but then stopped and stared at him. "You're serious?" "Of course I'm serious. Think about it. A rational individual will bring a cheap, easy-to-prepare dish to a potluck. They'll hope to benefit from other people's well-prepared dishes while exerting little effort or money themselves, but won't be surprised if they don't. It's the same thing with cookie exchanges, or at restaurants. They all present classic 'moral hazard' situations. And heaven help you if you've included too many economists in the mix. Chances are we've all thought things through. It's the simplest game theory problem there is." "Oh my God. I can't believe you just admitted that." "Why? I expect everyone to behave rationally, and I behave accordingly; I'm rational actor. If you want a more optimal outcome, you have to restructure the rules. Again, it's simple game theory. What's so wrong with that?" "You call that rational? That's... that's childish, Michael. I mean, here I am talking about riding the train to save on excess carbon emissions and you're talking about cookie swaps because you don't want cheap sugar cookies." He opened his mouth to clarify—she hadn't understood his point about restructuring the rules for a more optimal outcome, at all—but she pressed on. "What else?" "Uh... let's see. I just explained the concepts of conditional and unconditional cash transfers to my nephews. One nephew wanted a skateboard for his birthday; the other didn't know what he wanted. So I gave one a skateboard, and the other a check for less than the value of the skateboard." "You can't be serious." She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hide her laughter. "That's terrible, Michael. Really, really terrible. You say you're their favorite?" "Why is it terrible? Gifts aren't about money. They're about happiness. Economists have shown, time and again, that an unrestricted cash transfer gives an individual a higher level of happiness—well, utility—than a restricted transfer does. So if I want my nephews to be equally happy, I give the one who wants cash an amount that is less than the value of the good I give to the other." He paused at the look of horror on her face. "I can draw the graph for you, if you'd like. I'm not lying, or trying to be a bad uncle." "Um, no thanks. Part of me wants to stop here—you're getting weirder by the minute—but I kind of want to know more." She grinned, and that twinkle was back in her eye. "Well, I conduct cost-benefit analyses when faced with various decisions; it's how I ended up flying and not, you know, taking the train, which, while cheaper, has a huge opportunity cost associated with the excess time. Um, let's see... there should be a division of labor within a family or between friends based on specialization; that's a good one." He paused, trying to think. It was hard when she had such an incredulous smile on her face. "I don't know." He laughed. "More of the usual, I guess." "The usual, right." She took another sip from her drink. "So tell me, Professor, do these rules of yours apply to relationships?" He stared at her. She'd taken the subject onto a new course, and something in her tone had changed, too. It was subtle, but she was more... flirtatious? And why had she called him Professor? She'd done that earlier, and he hadn't quite understood it then, either. "Yeah, I suppose they can apply to relationships." "Oh? Do explain." "Well, if there's a disagreement, you can conduct a cost-benefit analysis of the various outcomes. You'd consider how much option X benefits person A and costs person B, versus how much option Y benefits person B and costs person A. It's more complicated than that in a relationship, of course; even when you win, you internalize a cost from seeing your partner upset, and sometimes when you lose, you win in a strange sort of way from the benefit of seeing your partner so happy. Those twists have to be factored into the analysis. But that's one way of thinking about decisions in a relationship. It's a straightforward application of a fairly typical analysis." "Typical. Of course. I always solve relationship problems with a spreadsheet." He pressed on in a mock serious voice. "And of course, relationships have to be Pareto efficient." "Come again?" "They have to be Pareto efficient." "I'm afraid I don't know that one." She grinned. "I must have dozed off that day, Professor." "Shall we go back to Econ 101, then?" Heaven help him, but he was actually getting used to her calling him Professor. "Pareto efficiency occurs when a system's goods or resources are allocated among individuals in such a way that no other allocation could make an individual better off without making another individual worse off. I suppose that a relationship could—and should—be structured in such a way that achieves the maximum possible happiness for both people; if not, aspects of the relationship can be restructured, but only if the restructuring doesn't make one person worse off. If this restructuring makes one person happier without decreasing the other's happiness, then we say a Pareto improvement has occurred. You could apply this line of thinking to all sorts of aspects of a relationship." "I see." Her lips quirked. "Like sex? Do you have Pareto efficient sex, Professor?" He let out a short laugh, and felt himself blush. Part of him thought he must be imagining her asking about his sex life. He didn't think he'd ever talked about sex with the women he'd dated. They'd just, well, done it. He looked down into his drink; he'd only consumed half a beer since dinner. Maybe he wasn't imagining things? "Um, well, I suppose so. I haven't really thought about it before, but if a certain sex act makes one person better off, without leaving the other worse off, then yeah, it can be part of a Pareto efficient relationship. Actually, if it's a new sex act for the couple, it would be equivalent to a new good or resource entering the economic system. Just as a new good expands the Pareto frontier via a Pareto improvement in economic theory, the new sex act could bring the relationship to a new and better level." "I see. And I suppose we have to include mental health here when evaluating a sex act. Because some sex acts can definitely leave one person physically worse off, at least in the short term, but leave that same person much, much happier than they were before the sex act." He blinked. Were they talking about what he thought they were talking about? "Yeah. I guess so." "I see." She paused. "So, Professor, do you want to debate economic theory some more?" It should have been an innocent question, but it wasn't; her tone had been anything but innocent. She may as well have said, so, Professor, do you want to fuck me? Part of him thought that had been what she'd asked. Michael stared at her, watching as a mischievous, teasing grin spread across her face. "What? Don't tell me your past lovers never called you Professor?" "Um... well, I can't say they did." His lips quirked. "Most of them were professors, too. Or when I was younger, graduate students destined to be professors. And, well, professor is kind of a nerdy term." "And you're hot, in a nerdy kind of way." He laughed. He couldn't remember anyone telling him that he was hot, but nerdy? That was familiar. "Are you going to tell me I'm like Duckie from Pretty in Pink, or Farmer Ted from The Breakfast Club? I got that a lot growing up." She smiled. "You know, I did always think that Andie should've ended up with Duckie in Pretty in Pink; Blaine—I think that was his name—was such a prick. And Farmer Ted in The Breakfast Club... borderline rapist, now that I think about it. But no, you don't remind me of Duckie, or Farmer Ted, or any other nerds from Brat Pack movies. You remind me of Indiana Jones." He choked on a sip of his beer at her last comment. "Indiana Jones? You're joking, right? Perhaps I should tell you now that I've always been a terrible shot, I'm afraid of heights, and I've never owned a fedora." He paused. "Though I am afraid of snakes. We do have that in common, I guess. But really, I'm just a professor." "Exactly, a professor." That mischievous, teasing grin of hers—the one that made his heart pound a bit harder—returned. "Don't you remember the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Indy's in his tweed and the female student in the front row blinks her eyes at him, and has "LOVE" and "YOU" written on the eyelids? He's the hot professor, the one his students lust after. Don't you remember how he escapes to his office and then has to climb out the window because of all the female students at his door? You remind me of the sexy academic Indiana Jones, not the whip-wielding, treasure- and Nazi-hunting Indiana Jones." The Pareto Efficient Relationship She downed the rest of her drink and set it back down on the table, keeping eye contact with him the entire time. She stood, leaned over the table, and placed her lips just above his ear. She didn't touch him, but he could feel her warm breath against his ear and the heat of her cheek close to his own. His breathing sped up, and he was overwhelmed by a strong floral smell, like honeysuckle or wisteria. He wanted to turn his head and bury his face in her hair, to see if it was as soft as it was shiny, but he forced his head to remain still. "Not that you wouldn't look sexy wielding a whip. 'Cause I bet you would." He shivered as she whispered, and closed his eyes as he heard her lick her lips. "And that would definitely be Pareto efficient, Professor." She sat back down, and he opened his eyes to see her lips move into a lazy smile. "So like I said, want to debate economic theory, Professor?" ------------ If Michael hadn't been staring straight at Goldie and seen the twinkle in her eye the first time she'd asked, "want to debate economic theory," he might have actually thought she wanted to do just that, for that's exactly what they'd talked about on the walk back to the hotel. The topic had been monetary policy—his specialty—and she'd bested him on more than one point. He narrowed his eyes at the memory. She'd probably picked the subject on purpose. She was a champion debater; she knew how to use an opponent's momentary weaknesses to her advantage. She hadn't even seemed fazed once they'd reached the hotel; she'd punched her floor's button while carrying on a cheerful conversation with an older man wearing a University of Vermont sweatshirt, and had even cooed over pictures of his grandchildren. How the hell could she do that? All he could do was stare at the lights flashing behind the floor numbers as they rose. A conversation was out of the question; he couldn't stop wondering what she would look like naked. Or if her breasts were the perfect handfuls they'd appeared to be in the few glimpse he'd caught under her jacket. Or if she would be bare, or have red hair everywhere. His mind wandered from that last thought to fantasies of what he'd do to her once they were in the hotel room. Had she broached the subject of monetary policy on purpose? Did she want a little teasing payback? The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. They were alone; he'd missed the older man's departure. Yet another teasing smiled played at her lips as she raised an eyebrow at him. "More economic theory, Professor?" He flashed her a teasing, lecherous grin of his own. "Absolutely." He paused as a terrible thought came crashing into his mind. "Do you have any condoms, Goldie?" "Worried about overpopulation, my dear Malthus?" Her teasing smile broke into a wide smile, and she placed her hand on his sleeve as they turned onto her corridor. "Don't worry about it. I've got you covered." Once in her room she flicked on the bathroom light, and he heard her rummaging through a bag as he remained in the short hall. The light flicked off, and he felt her warm, soft hand place the tell-tale plastic package in his hand. She wrapped her arm around his neck, and pulled his lips down to meet hers. Her hands wandered everywhere as they kissed; all at once they seemed to be on his neck, in his hair, along his back and at his stomach as she pulled his shirt out of his pants. She felt soft and warm beneath his grip on her waist, but he could feel the muscles of her abdomen and the roll of her hips beneath his roving hands. He moved his hands forward as their tongues continued to tangle, desperate to undo her buttons so he could touch her bare skin. He groaned into her mouth as he succeeded, and felt her muscles tense as he ran his fingertips up along her abdomen towards her breasts. They stumbled across the room—her backwards, him forwards—and lurched as her knees hit the bed. He wasn't sure if he fell or if she pulled him forward, but either way he ended up on top of her. He ran his hands into her hair—something he'd wanted to do since seeing her hair yesterday evening—and pulled her face back to give him better access to her lips. He'd noticed earlier that her lips were wide, and they now seemed to be everywhere on his own, moving from suckling his upper lip to nipping his bottom. He couldn't get enough of her mouth. Her hands were still tugging at his shirt. He tore himself away from her to take it off, and she sat up with him, whipping her unbuttoned top off in an instant. His hands stilled halfway through his own buttons as he saw the pale flesh of her breasts peeking out above the top of a lacy bra. "Don't stop now, Indy," she purred as she worked at the button of his pants. Fingers shaking, he managed to undo the remainder of his buttons and take his shirt off as she pushed his pants down to his knees. "Mmmm... very nice." She dragged her finger across his chest a few times as she looked at him with another of her grins. "Very nice, indeed." He closed his eyes as her lips fastened over a nipple. "Oh shit," he croaked. They were kneeling on the bed. One of her hands was running along his backside, holding him to her. He felt the other trail down his stomach to rest on the bulge beneath his boxer briefs. He groaned into her hair. "You like that, Michael?" "Uh-huh. Oh shit," he said again as he felt her hands push his boxer briefs down and close around him. Her skin felt hot as she explored his shaft and the balls beneath, and his hips began to thrust against her on instinct. He yanked her head up from his chest and thrust his tongue into her mouth as she stroked him up and down, their tongues wrapping together in time with her strokes. He needed to do something, and fast, or else this would be over way before he wanted it to be. He pulled his head away from hers, gasping for air. His hands had been gripping her hips, hard, and he forced them to relax. Without giving her a warning, he reached down and grabbed her hands in his. It was time to implement one of the many fantasies that had flashed through his head in the elevator. "Wha—" She started to speak, but his speed took her by surprise. He stood—it was awkward; his pants were still around his knees—but he managed to turn her onto her stomach. He kicked off his pants as she pulled herself onto her hands and knees, but he was behind her before she had time to move beyond that. She stilled. "Mmmm? This... is a pleasant surprise." He snorted. "Well, it would have been an unpleasant surprise if I had come all over your hands, wouldn't it?" "I don't know. I've always liked that. As long as there's more later, that is." "'Later' is the key word, Goldie." He placed his hands outside hers, surrounding her with his body. She moaned as he made a trail of nipping kisses down her throat. "You were a bit of a tease in the bar, and then pulled quite the stunt on the way back to the hotel with your choice of subject." She let out a throaty laugh. "Noticed that, did you?" "Yes. I did. And unfortunately for you, turnabout is fair play." "Fair?" She laughed again as he sat back. "I didn't think economists cared much about fair. I thought it was all about efficiency. Are you telling me we're not going to have efficient sex, Professor?" He chuckled, but didn't answer. He was too busy fighting with her pants. He couldn't get them off; there must have been more than one button above the zipper. She sent him a teasing look over her shoulder. "Struggling?" He glanced at her. Her expression was a mixture of amusement and lust. "A bit. Your pants have too many buttons. Or snaps. Or clasps. Or... whatever the hell." He let out a sigh of frustration. "And someone got me all worked up, so my fingers aren't working so well." "All worked up? That must be awful for y—oh, fuck." He'd triumphed against the buttons, and had pushed her pants—and, apparently, her panties—down to her knees in one motion. The surprise of his own success had caught him off guard, and he'd fallen forward against her. His now fully erect cock landed against the crack of her ass. He groaned at the feel of her warm, smooth skin against his naked body. She gasped and dug her hands into the duvet cover. He moved his fingers to the apex of her thighs; she was wet, so incredibly wet. He toyed with her outer folds as she squirmed against his hand, trying to get him to move his fingers to the center. He laughed. "I don't think so, Goldie. Turnabout, remember?" She turned her face to him and smiled as he unclasped her bra with his other hand. He pushed it down to her wrists on the bed, and she flicked it away. He leaned over her again, resting his weight on one hand outside of her own as he reached around to cup her breast. He lowered his head to her neck again, and was just about to tug at her nipple when she froze. He followed her gaze to the bedside table. What the.... They both lunged. Already having the advantage by being on top of her, he got to the table first and had them back in the same position in seconds. "Is this... did you bring a vibrator with you, Goldie? On a business trip?" Part of his brain wanted to laugh, but the other part was speeding through a new, improved series of delicious fantasies compared to those he'd had on the elevator. He wasn't sure what she'd been planning on doing with the toy if she had reached it first—throw it under the bed or use it on him, though he guessed she'd try the latter—but it no longer mattered. He'd won their little race. He was going to use it to his advantage; she would pay for the monetary policy debate stunt she'd pulled earlier, in the most delicious way he could think of. "Oh God." She groaned as he switched the vibrator on and yanked her pants the rest of the way off. He hovered millimeters from her, letting her hear the hum of the toy before he placed it against the flesh of her inner thighs and outer lips. "Mmmm? What was that?" She groaned again and collapsed onto her elbows. "Oh God. Fuck that feels good. Don't tease me." "Well, you're the one who brought a vibrator with you. I imagine there's a high psychic cost associated with the embarrassment you'd feel if this thing had gone off in your luggage on the train. Even if we multiply that cost by the probability of it going off, it'd still be high a cost. Don't you want to benefit from a nice, long, drawn-out orgasm?" "No. I want to come. What happened to economists being obsessed with efficiency?" She was panting, and chasing the toy with her hips. She whimpered when he reached his other hand out and grabbed her hip so she couldn't move. "Hmmm? I really think I should make sure the benefit of your orgasm is greater than the weighted embarrassment cost of bringing a sex toy on Amtrak. You know, to make sure the result of the cost-benefit analysis is a net benefit for you. Don't you agree?" "No! Stop teasing me, you damn... you fucking laissez-faire, Hayek-loving, monetarist bastard." He chuckled as she continued to squirm. "As much I like your dirty talk, Goldie, I thought we were going with Professor. I was beginning to like that." "Monetarist bastard," she repeated with a groan, but he thought he'd heard a small chuckle, and he could tell she'd panted the words through a smile. He reveled in her sounds. He continued to move the toy around her legs, touching her clit every few seconds. She jumped and moaned each time, and before long was writhing on her elbows and knees before him. He sat back to watch, keeping one hand on her hip to stop her from moving too much. Her legs were spread and her back was arched down, giving him an incredible view as she squirmed beneath his hand against the toy. When her whimpers reached a high-pitched mewling stage and her arms and legs began to shake, he decided she'd had enough. He didn't know her body that well, after all; what if she was one of those women who, if denied, couldn't come? He leaned over and cooed into her ear. "You want this?" "Yes." She gasped. "Yes please, Professor." He didn't think he would have made her call him Professor to let her come, but since she had... he moved the hand that had been holding her hip up to her breast. She swore and gasped and, now free of his hand, began to grind against the toy. Her eyes flew open as she threw her head back, and he heard a sharp intake of breath before her hips began to buck against him. She cried out something he couldn't understand before collapsing on her stomach on top of the duvet. "Goldie?" His voice was tight; after watching her, he didn't know how long he could wait. "Mmmm? Fuck, that was good." She'd turned her head to the side, and he could see her body heave up and down as she panted. "Just a sec. Just give me a second." "Okay." He had to do something. He couldn't just sit here and look at her flushed body; it was driving him mad. He leaned over and trailed light kisses up and down her spine, and caressed her hips and cheeks with his hands. He heard a muffled, throaty laugh against the duvet. "Mmmm... you're gonna make me come again if you keep doing that." "Yeah? Would that be so bad?" "Tempting, but I want you inside me." "Thank God. Want to move, or—" "No." She pulled her knees back under her, raising her ass off the bed again. "Here. Now." She seemed dazed from her orgasm, and didn't seem to know what to do with her hands. She kept moving them on the bed in front of her, then putting them at her sides, then reaching behind her, and then repeating the motions. His lips quirked. "You know, I can make your hands stay in one place, if you'd like?" The words flew out of his mouth before he'd thought about them; he couldn't quite believe he'd said them. "Mmmm...." She moved her hands from the bed to rest behind her back, and pushed her ass higher in the air. "Yes I would like that, Professor. Fuck me. Just like this." He sat back and groped for the condom, not wanting to pull his eyes from the sight of her on the bed, ass up, hands behind her back. He positioned himself at her entrance, grabbed her two hands in one of his and her hip with the other, and pressed forward. Heaven help him, but he didn't think he'd ever be able to hear the word professor again without getting turned on by picturing her nude and splayed out before him. They groaned as he slid in. She was slick from her earlier orgasm, and swollen, hot and tight. He tried to go slow, to draw his own pleasure out, but couldn't. He managed to restrain his speed for a few strokes, but then lost himself to her body. She was starting to moan and pant again, and heat radiated from her body into his own. He could smell her—them—in the air, the heady smell of sweat and latex and lube and her arousal, a salty-sweet floral scent. He was close. She'd already come once, but he wanted her to come again. He wanted to feel her around him. He wanted her orgasm to give him his own. He slowed and lowered his body over hers. He moved his lips to her ear and nipped a few times before whispering. "Goldie? What do you need? Tell me what you need to come again." She groaned into the duvet, and he could only just make out her words. "Fingers. Clit. Circles." She sounded desperate, like she was close but couldn't quite make it. He stopped moving as he reached a hand beneath her. He began to rub in circles as instructed, and she began to shake and whimper and tighten around him. Unable to stay still any longer, he moved again, just as she bucked up beneath him. This time, he heard her wail his name as she climaxed. He groaned in his release. He may have said her name—he wasn't sure—and collapsed on top of her. He rolled off and looked over at her. She was still on her stomach, but her head was to the side. Her face was relaxed and her eyes were closed, and he could see her panting. She opened her eyes and grinned at him, her face still half buried in the duvet. "Mmmmm... that was nice. Really, really, really nice." "Yeah?" "Yeah." Her face fell, and in the moonlight he saw a shadow pass through her eyes. "Was it, um, was it not, you know—" "No!" He reached out a hand and ran it through her hair. "I mean, yes. Yeah. It was nice." He smiled. "That is, it was really, really, really nice." "Good." She bit her lip and smiled at him as he continued to play with her hair. He was surprised; she'd seemed so confident earlier, but seemed almost nervous now. "Do you want to stay?" "If you want me to, then yeah." "Yeah. I do." He grinned and leaned over to kiss her. "Good." They were too hot to get under the covers, but he moved them around to be on the bed the right way. "I'm glad you came back with me, Michael. I was afraid you wouldn't; I haven't, well, propositioned someone like that since college. I was nervous all through dinner. Actually, I was nervous all day." He looked at her in surprise. "You? Nervous? I was the one who was nervous, Goldie." She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him. "You know how I mentioned my boss, Colin? Well, he's been trying to set me up with the other Michael Andrews for months." "Seriously?" "Yup." She shook her head in disbelief. "I was so excited when I saw you this morning. You were so... tall, and handsome, and well dressed, and... well, from your—the other Michael's, I guess—work with the City of Chicago, I thought we'd be right in line with each other in terms of our approach to sustainability. And your paper is brilliant, Michael; it's so much more than a simple literature review. Your writing style and logic are incredible; I wanted to meet you so much when I read it on the train. You seemed perfect. I got so damn nervous when we met." "What? No, I don't believe you. You didn't seem nervous at all, Goldie." She groaned. "Oh please. I babbled on about my name as soon as I met you! I never do that, ever. And you know, that introduction was almost so much worse. I almost told you I go by Goldie because Goldenrod has so many phallic undertones; I actually went by Goldenrod until I was about eleven, until kids starting putting the pause in between golden and rod." She paused. "I wasn't kidding, though; your jokes are terrible, Michael." "And yet you laughed." She chuckled, and he smiled as she snuggled into his side. They lay like that as their breathing returned to normal. "Out of curiosity, Goldenrod, had you reached it first, what were you planning on doing with that vibrator?" "Hmmm," she said, drawing circles on his chest with her finger. "Would you like to find out?" He stared down at the top of her head. Would he? "Yes." "Good." She squinted at the clock. "It's midnight. I don't think anyone will notice if we don't show up for the morning panels, do you?" "No, and honestly, I really don't care if anyone does," he said as he ran his fingers through her hair. "Besides, I really think we should search for that expanded Pareto frontier with some good, old-fashioned, Pareto efficient sex, don't you?" ------------------ Michael stood on the front porch of the old duplex and knocked on the door. It was Friday. It had been one week, one whole week since the best sex of his life. He should have called her earlier, but he'd been too chicken. Maybe she wasn't home? He took a few deep breaths as he looked around, taking in the assorted pots of herbs and vegetable seedlings, wondering if she'd answer his knock. "I was beginning to doubt you." Goldie was leaning against the doorjamb with her arms crossed. He hadn't heard the door open. He paused. "How are you?" "Fine. You? Have a good visit with your family?" "Yeah." He looked back at her plants, unable to make eye contact. He'd known she'd need an explanation, and her matter-of-fact tone underscored her annoyance with him. "Work's been busy since I got back. The end of the semester is coming and my students keep hounding me in my office, I've been fighting with the error term in this statistical model for days and I'm writing a couple of final exams... I'm sorry." He looked at her, trying to convey his apology with his eyes. "I should have called." The Pareto Efficient Relationship "Yes. You should have. Especially after I left a message." "I know. I'm sorry. You were good." She flinched; she half looked like he'd just struck her, and half like she was gearing to hit him back. "That didn't come out right. It's just... I've never been one for just sex. I've tried those types of arrangements, but they've never worked. I need more, and I didn't know if this—you and me—could ever work, you know? I got confused, but instead of calling, I just... worked. It's a bad habit of mine." She stared at him for some time before speaking, her expression unreadable. "So why didn't you think this could work? Because you think we're too different?" She snorted when he nodded his response. "That's ridiculous, Michael. You and I are exactly the same." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I seem to remember you saying that I wrote about 'insane monetary policy' for a living. And you're... you're a vegetarian." It was a lame thing to say, but it was all that he could think of. She shook her head, and he was relieved to see a smile playing at her lips when she spoke. "Deep down we're the same, Michael. I'm not sure if our careers led to our lifestyles or vice versa, but both of us have conflated the two. The result is a dull, rules-oriented, blinders-on existence, but one that manifests itself in completely different ways. Who knows; maybe we need a little difference in our lives, for balance, fun, and sanity." When he didn't reply she rolled her eyes. "I could give you a long explanation about how we each turn to our own forms of rationality to prescribe our actions, or how we both argue for a living—you in academic journals, me in editorials and with the spoken word—but instead I'll give you a handy metaphor: you went to Harvard and I went to Yale. Can you get any more, 'different but exactly the same,' than that? They're bitter rivals, but they're both elite—and kind of elitist—Ivy League universities." Michael stared at her. What she said made sense, in a weird sort of way. "Maybe." He paused, mulling over her words. "Harvard is so much better than Yale, though." They looked at each other, grins spreading across both of their faces. "I don't think so, Michael. At least my school isn't swamped with tourists every day." She stepped aside to let him in the front door. "And as I told you in Kansas City, I'm only sort of a vegetarian." She leaned against the door as she shut it behind them. "While I might make you eat vegetable lasagna with a butternut béchamel sauce tonight, there will be bacon and eggs tomorrow." "Bacon?" "Bacon, one of my biggest vices in life." Her smile broadened. "Acceptable?" "Maybe." He paused. "But I want only plain pasta" She blinked. "What?" "No funky pasta. If I want chickpeas or lentils, I'll eat chickpeas or lentils. Pasta should be made from durum wheat, not that other crap." "Okay." Her voice cracked, like she was trying not to laugh at him. "Well, as long as we're on the subject of food, no side-veggies-as-main-meals. There's nothing worse than being presented with a plate of broccoli as if it's a meal. It's not; it's a side. If I'm at your place, I expect vegetable lasagna, portabella burgers, rice and beans... hell, I'll be happy if you just have roasted red peppers, spinach, and fresh mozzarella available so I can make my own sandwich." "I can do that. But I want to eat meat around you." "Well, I want to eat your meat, too, so that shouldn't be a problem." She grinned, and reached forward to unbutton his coat. He smiled back, covering her hands with his own to help with the buttons. "That's flattering, but not what I meant." "I know what you meant. I'm fine with that, though we'll have to investigate the sources. I'll only tolerate happy animals in my presence." He raised an eyebrow as he threw his coat on the couch behind him. "You realize they're dead, right? I'm not sure how happy they are." "You know what I mean—happy before they died. By the way, we're bringing something good if we go to a potluck." He sucked in a sharp breath, and then slowly exhaled. Was she worth the being the losing end of a game theory problem? "Deal." She smiled, and he reached out to pull her towards him. "But I'm in charge of transportation." "We'll see about that. Two of us going to Kansas City often enough might actually have an impact on Amtrak ridership." She leaned forward to kiss him, but then pulled her head back and looked up instead. "What about... how do you feel about Indiana Jones props?" "Hmmm? Indiana Jones props? Like what, a fedora?" He was only half listening; his mind had moved on from words. "Not quite what I was thinking, though if you want one it wouldn't look bad on you." Her jaw quirked and she blushed. It was the first time he'd seen her blush; it was kind of cute. "I was thinking more along the lines of his, um, other gear. Like what I mentioned in the bar that night." He froze. "I guess some of that can be on the table." He gave her waist a little squeeze. "Especially if you're serious about the potlucks and fighting me on transportation." She chuckled. "Well, we have to keep things Pareto efficient, don't we?" ------------------ One year later Michael stood in the kitchen, hands on his hips. "This isn't going to work." "What isn't going to work?" Goldie stood in front of him, holding her bike helmet in one hand and an overflowing pannier in the other. One leg of her jeans was rolled up to the knee, and her shirt bore the tell-tale sweat stripe of the messenger bag that had been slung across her chest; he assumed she'd dropped it in the front hall with her bike. "I got some sweet potatoes, if that's what you're worried about. We can make both regular and sweet potato fries. It should be enough" "Oh, good." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "But that's not what I meant. This," he said, sweeping his arm around to indicate the piles of plates, glasses, napkins, and silverware in the kitchen. "This afternoon, I mean." It was Sunday, and they were hosting an afternoon potluck. One part house-warming party, one part kitschy Earth Day celebration, all of their friends would be in attendance. Both of their leases had ended the previous month, and they'd decided to buy a house together. The process had been full of compromises and exchanges; her rain barrels for his new grill, her soaps and detergents for his peanut butter and coffee brands, her low-flow shower heads for his wood-burning fires on cold nights. They managed without too many arguments, but when the exchanges weren't quite equal, they'd long since discovered that the bedroom was a fabulous place to restore balance to their cost-benefit analyses. "Oh, it will work quite well, I think. Your friends, being selfish—" She gave him a mock innocent smile at the glare he sent her. "I mean, being rational economists, will bring crappy things to the potluck. My friends, being good and trusting little hippies, will bring vegetarian dishes that they slaved over." He spluttered. "Wait, they're all bringing vegetarian dishes? But they're not all vegetarians!" "True, but they're considerate of each other's dietary concerns." She flashed him an evil grin. "I bet the big break will be between the vegetarians and the vegans." "Vegans." He shook his head. "It's a good thing you're making hamburgers." "Me? Oh, no. I'm not making hamburgers. You are." He shot her a teasing smile. "But cooking is your specialization, dear. It falls under your domain in our division of labor." "Ah, well, it may be my specialization, but it also reproduces gender norms. Plus, it's meat, so I'll pass on this one." "I should never have bought you that feminist economics book for Christmas. You've been spouting off that 'reproducing gender norms' nonsense for months," he grumbled, giving her rear a playful smack as he took the pannier from her. She grinned at him. "Okay, I'll make the burgers. It's a good thing you made that chocolate cake, Golds. No vegan dishes here. Well, besides the French fries, I suppose, but they don't count since they're deep fried." She was quiet, too quiet. He glanced over to see her lips twitching. "Goldie? You said you made the chocolate cake I love so much, the one you make all the time. What's so funny?" "I did make the cake. But it's vegan." "What?" He stared at her. "The cake I've been eating all year is vegan? What about the frosting? That, too?" "Feel like you're going to be ill?" A wry grin spread across her face. "I know you love that cake, and you certainly love the frosting, no matter where I put it." He felt his face redden as he remembered where she had put last night's leftovers. "I do like it. I just... I'm surprised, that's all." He paused. "Vegan? Really?" She turned and walked towards the hallway. "Don't worry, hunny. I bought some nice, full fat ice cream from a local creamery, and I have some locally-crafted chocolate covered bacon that you can sprinkle on the top. You can de-vegan that puppy in no time. And you know," she called out, her teasing voice trailing down the stairs, "we still have a few hours before everyone gets here. I'm awfully sweaty from that last trip. Want to help suds me up? I'm sure you can find a way to get back at me for making you eat a vegan cake all year." He smiled and began to unbutton his shirt as he followed the sound of her voice. "Only if I get to use the finest, locally-crafted soap that you buy at our local farmers' market. And only if it came from free-range, humanely-treated goats." "Of course," she said over the sound of the shower. "We have to be Pareto efficient, after all, don't we, Indy?" ------------------ Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! As always, comments, votes, and feedback are appreciated. To any economists out there, yes, I realize that I stretched the truth/terms in some areas (Pareto efficiency, departmental stereotypes, etc). My apologies, but it was all meant to be in good fun. If something related to my treatment of economics truly bothers you, feel free to send me an email with your critique and I'll try to incorporate your specific feedback into any edits I may make in the future. -T