At 9:15 that morning, Nicasio was standing in a lecture room of Barrows Hall before his crowded class of undergraduates on the UCB campus. He was obviously distracted and looked a bit tired. He was conducting a PowerPoint presentation on the California Missions, projected onto a large screen behind him. His discussion was about the first of the Spanish Colonial missions to be founded, San Diego de Alcala.

As he spoke and advanced the first photo, one of the students in the class immediately raised his hand and asked if the image on the screen was not, in fact, the Mission Santa Barbara. The students, some sixty or seventy freshmen and sophomores, who had signed up for the California History course because it fulfilled the American Cultures requirement, begin to quietly talk. It was an embarrassing moment as Nicasio quickly looked back and realized that he had indeed made a mistake. It was in his haste the night before, loading into his USB the wrong series of mission images—the Santa Barbara photos were scheduled for Wednesday's lecture.

The class was silent as he tried to rectify the error. He searched his laptop's hard drive and then fumbled with several USB sticks he produced from his pockets. The talking in the lecture hall continued and there was even some isolated, spontaneous laughter. He realized it was to no avail, as the correct images were not with him. He apologized to the class and advised them to go on the Net that evening and familiarize themselves with mission's correct architecture and the overall design of the first early Spanish colonial complex.

He looked into the eyes of several of the more sympathetic freshmen in the front row and saw some obvious concern on the faces of a few admiring females. He cut short the lecture completely to their disappointment, and told the class that he would make up the time and information to them later. Nicasio then looked nervously at his watch. He gathered his notes, unplugged his laptop, and placed everything in his backpack. Professor Simons would be expecting him in the History Department office building in thirty-five minutes. He hurried out of the lecture room at Barrows Hall and started walking brusquely across the tree-lined walkway near the César E. Chavez Student Center toward Dwinelle Hall. Suddenly, he heard his name being called faintly behind him.

"Mr. Carvajal? Mr. Carvajal?"

He turned to see a young student, one of his freshmen from the lecture approaching. Nicasio recognized her as one of the girls in the front row who had made a habit of smiling at him during his lectures.

"Mr. Carvajal, you left so quickly. . . I just wanted . . ."

The eighteen-year-old was out of breath from running. As she caught up with him he noticed from her closer proximity some striking Nordic features which had set her apart from the others—her short, blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Up close her face was pristine and innocent looking. It was a fragile face, as if made of China. Her expression out in the quad still expressed the admiration he remembered at a distance in the lecture hall.

"Excuse me? What?"

Nicasio was caught off-guard. He could see that she was quickly becoming embarrassed and at a loss to continue, suddenly face to face with him.

"Oh. . . OK. Look, I'm sorry about the lecture. . ." He continued impromptu. "But I've got this appointment today . . . and it's pretty important. So . . ."

As she refrained from speaking further, he turned to go on his way, but then paused again. She was still staring at him. Still at a loss for words.

Nicasio only continued, hoping to free himself from the awkward situation. "So about those photos you missed today. . . I really am going to. . ."

"No. That's just what I wanted to tell you."

"What? What did you want to tell me?" He looked furtively again at his watch. Twenty minutes until the meeting.

"Well. . . I guess it's . . . Just for you not to worry about it . . . I know you were disappointed about . . . the pictures."

"Yeah OK, I was. But it's gonna be fine now . . . really. For everybody. . . "

"See, Mr. Carvajal, I just wanted you to know . . . How much I . . ."

The girl was looking at him intensely now. Hers were undoubtedly the piercing blue eyes he had always found distracting from the front row.

"How much I . . . enjoy. . ."

She now seemed in over her head, blushing, and at a total loss for words. She waited. Hoping for him to make some verbal rescue."

"Look . . . what is your name?

"Rebecca."

"Yes. Rebecca . . . Rebecca what?

"Rebecca Hansen. Don't you remember? The paper I wrote?

"The paper?" Nicasio looked again, then more seriously at his watch. Fifteen minutes.

"It was on the Spanish Manila galleon trade. You wrote some helpful comments on it and gave me a 'B-' for a mark."

"Yes, well . . . I can re-look at it if you wish . . . maybe a second draft?"

"No. I'm OK with the mark."

"You're OK with the mark?"

"Mr. Carvajal, I just wanted to tell you how much I like your class, that's all."

Nicasio was now highly stressed and could only think of Professor Simons, his academic future and suddenly the truth about Murphy's Law.

"Look, Rebecca. . ."

"Becky."

"OK, Becky. . . Look. You're really sweet to say so, but . . . right now, well what ever can go wrong, will go wrong, OK?' Does that make any sense to you?"

The girl looked at him blankly. "No."

"I'll explain it someday. Maybe later . . . in class. But now I really have to go . . . OK?"

"Alright then, Mr. Carvajal." The girl maintained a perplexed look on her lovely face. "So . . . will you be back on Wednesday?" she asked softly, sounding a bit hurt.

Nicasio had already turned away, leaving her standing on the red tiled walkway.

"Of course!" he yelled back. By then he had broken into a full run for the Humanities quad.

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Daniela's place of work was in a busy, unattractive section of downtown of San Francisco. It was near the old Garment District. For the past year she had been on the 4th floor of the Wexler Advertisement Solutions building. As usual that Monday morning she was dressed casually—jeans and an oversized white T-shirt, covered by an unbuttoned sweater. She sat at a spacious layout table where her graphics sketches for a women's magazine campaign were in progress. 

Her boss, Mr. Cuomo, the ads director, entered the large cubicle where she had been assigned to sketch out on this occasion a promotion for women's shoes. She was obviously annoyed at his presence. He was forty-fiveish, prematurely graying, minimally handsome, but always well-dressed—wearing an Italian tailored suit of some specificity which disinterested her entirely, as most things relating to fashion had since high school. Mr. Cuomo swaggered about the studio and then placed himself quietly behind her, confident of his senior position in the agency.

For the past six months, the later half of her tenure with the firm, he had been perceptibly attracted to her more than her work. He usually remained out of her view, pretending to be looking over her shoulders, but always more directly at her. On this morning he placed his hands boldly, yet lightly on her shoulders as he spoke. Daniela flinched, and then froze. She did not confront him or remove his hands. Mr. Cuomo softly made several suggestions to her about the ad concept, followed by what she had been negatively anticipating all week—another couched invitation to go out with him for dinner.

When she acted as if she did not understand the request, he made his offer more direct. At that point she politely declined and moved her body forward, obliging him to remove his hands from her shoulders. Mr. Cuomo then made several critical remarks about her sketches and the overall attitude her graphics still did not, in his opinion, project. He told her she was totally missing the campaign's commercial slant.

Demonstrably put off by her rebuff, Mr. Cuomo reminded her of the project's deadline and what the consequences of not meeting it would mean to everyone in the production phase. After characteristically brushing off both sleeves of his coat of what could only be imaginary dust, but in actuality rejection, he summarily left.

Daniela looked at the clock above her. It was 9:55 AM and she took out her cell phone. She was angry with herself for breaking down and wanting to call Nicasio back so soon. Yet, thinking about the situation most of the sleepless night and morning had made her more forgiving. She did after all love him, and over the past year she had become far more sensitive to his academic and career concerns, as demanding as they were.

She paused while holding the phone ready to dial. Was it all just part of her current discontent with life that made her so needy these days?Or was he truly being selfish and insensitive to her? Nevertheless, Daniela speed-dialed Nicasio, hoping to clear up the whole situation and get beyond it. The dinner at Rafael's could always be rescheduled for another night. What mattered more was that they had been together for as many years she had been at university and now even one year beyond that.

Nicasio was presently sitting outside Dr. Simon's office, his backpack on his lap. He was waiting for the professor to arrive when suddenly he detected his old and battered Blackberry buzzing. He jumped up and fished it out of the side pocket even before the next series of vibrations.

"Dani! " He whispered. "Why are you calling me now? In five minutes I'm presenting!"

He could tell her phone was open but she was silent.

"Look, Daniela. . . you know I love you. But this is just an insanely important time for me!" Nicasio then heard the unfamiliar click of her phone as it prematurely shut off.

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