His eyes passed over her slowly, pausing to regard her lovely figure and then resting for a long time on her sneakers. He despised sneakers on women, for they were a waste of a perfectly good podiatric opportunity. He cleared his throat. “You look fine. I think the color of your blouse brings out the blush in your skin and the butterscotch flecks in your eyes. You look nice, actually.” He smiled at her a little too warmly and looked away.
I have butterscotch in my eyes? Since when? And since when has he looked at them long enough to notice?
“There is a little place near my building that I frequent during the week, especially on late nights. I’ll buy you dinner, and we can talk about your thesis proposal, informally, of course. How’s that?”
“Thank you, Professor.”
Their eyes did not meet for long, but they met, and warm and somewhat hesitant smiles were exchanged on both sides.
He waited patiently for her to put everything in order before he stood aside and waved his hand toward the hallway. “After you.”
She thanked him, and as she was passing, he reached out his hand and grasped the handle of her messenger bag, brushing against one of her fingers. Julia pulled back instinctively, dropping the bag.
Thankfully, he caught it. “This is a very fine briefcase. I think I should like to carry it for a little while. If you don’t mind.” He smirked at her, and she blushed.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I really like it. It’s perfect.”
Gabriel made no attempt to engage her in conversation until they were at the restaurant, Caffé Volo on Yonge Street. The Caffé was a quiet but friendly establishment that boasted perhaps the longest and best beer list in Toronto. It also had a very fine Italian chef, and so their food was some of the finest simple Italian fare on offer in the neighborhood. The restaurant itself was small, only ten tables, which were supplemented in the summer by a patio. The décor was rustic and included antiques, such as reclaimed church pews and old harvest tables. It gave Julia the impression of something like a German weinkeller, like the restaurant Vinum that she had visited with friends when she was in Frankfurt.
Gabriel liked it because they sold a particular kind of Trappist Ale that he preferred, Chimay Première, and it pleased him to have pizza in the Neapolitan style to pair with that beer. (As ever, he was impatient with mediocrity.) Since Gabriel was a frequent patron of Caffé Volo and more than somewhat persnickety, he was offered the best seating, which was a quiet table for two tucked into a corner near the large picture window that looked out on the madness that was Yonge Street at night.
Transvestites, university students, frat boys, policemen, happy g*y couples, happy straight couples, celebrities slumming, yuppies walking their pretentious pets, eco-friendly activists, street persons, buskers, possible gang members, Russian mafia, a wayward professor or Member of Provincial Parliament or two or four, etc. It was a myriad of fascinating human behavior, it was live, and it was free.
Julia settled cautiously into her seat, which was a converted church pew, and pulled the lambskin rug that the waiter had draped over the back of the pew tightly around her.
“Are you cold? I’ll ask Christopher to seat us near the fireplace.” Gabriel moved to signal to the waiter, but Julia stopped him.
“I like to people watch,” she said shyly.
“Me too,” he admitted. “But you look like a Yeti.”
Julia reddened.
“Forgive me,” he hastened to add. “But surely we can do better than a lambskin rug that has been God knows where. It probably used to grace the floor of Christopher’s apartment. And who knows what kind of shenanigans went down on it.”
Did he just use the word shenanigans in a sentence?
And with that, Professor Emerson gracefully pulled his British-racing-green cashmere sweater over his pretentious bow tie and head and handed it to her. Julia accepted it and moved the objectionable Yeti-like carpet to one side. She gently pulled on his generously-sized sweater.
“Better?” he smiled, trying to smooth his now mussed hair.
“Better.” She smiled, feeling much warmer and very comfortable, blanketed in the warmth and scent that was Gabriel. She folded up the cuffs considerably because his arms were much longer than hers.
“Did you go to Lobby on Tuesday?” she asked.
“No. Now, why don’t you tell me about your proposal?” His tone immediately became businesslike and professorial.
Thankfully, Christopher interrupted them at that moment to take their order, which gave Julia precious minutes to gather her thoughts.
“Their Caesar salads are quite good, as are their Neapolitan pizzas.
But they are both a bit large for one person. Are you the type to share?”
Gabriel asked.
Julia’s mouth dropped open.
“I mean, would you share with me, please? Or you could order whatever you like. Perhaps you don’t want salad and pizza.” Gabriel frowned, trying very hard not to be an overbearing, domineering professor for at least five minutes.
Christopher tapped his foot quietly, for he did not want The Professor to notice his impatience. He’d seen The Professor when he was irritated and did not wish to witness a repeat performance. Although perhaps he would behave differently now that he had female companionship (which was Christopher’s professional prescription for any kind of personality disorder, small or large).
“I’d like to share pizza and a salad with you. Thank you.” Julia’s quiet voice ended the deliberations.
Gabriel placed the order, and shortly thereafter Christopher appeared with their Chimays, which Gabriel had insisted Julia try.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to hers.
“Prost,” she replied.
She sipped the beer slowly, unable to forget her first beer and who it was with. That beer had been a domestic lager. This beer was reddish brown and sweet and malty all at once. She liked it a great deal and hummed her approval.
“It’s over ten dollars a bottle,” she whispered, not wishing to embarrass Gabriel or herself with loud incredulity.
“But it’s the best. And wouldn’t you rather drink one bottle of this rather than two bottles of Budweiser, which really is like drinking appalling bath water?”
I can only assume that all bath water would be appalling to drink, Professor Emerson, but I’ll take your word for it. Sicko.
“Well? Let’s hear it,” he prompted. “What are you thinking? I can see the wheels turning in that little mind of yours. So out with it.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and grinned, as if her little mind gave him no end of secret, condescending amusement.
Julia bristled. She didn’t like the fact that he’d used the diminutive little in referring to her mind, for it seemed to signify his contempt for her intellectual ability. So she decided to strike back.
“I’m glad I have a chance to speak to you privately,” she began, withdrawing two envelopes from her messenger bag. “I can’t accept these.” She slid the Starbucks gift card and the bursary award letter across the table.
Gabriel glanced at both items, recognized them immediately, and scowled. “What makes you think these are from me?” He pushed them back across the table.
“The powers of deduction. You’re the only one who calls me Julianne.
You’re the only one with a bank account large enough to fund a bursary.”
She returned the envelopes.
He paused for a moment. Was he really the only one who called Julianne by her proper name? What was everyone else calling her?
Julia.
“You must accept them.” He slid the papers over to her once again.
“No, I mustn’t. Gifts make me very uncomfortable, and the Starbucks card is too much. Not to mention the bursary. I will never be able to repay you, and I owe your family too much already. I can’t accept them.” She pushed them back.
“You can accept them, and you will. The gift card is inconsequential; I spend more than that on coffee in a month. I need to show you, in some tangible way, that I respect your intelligence. I said something in an unguarded moment that Miss Peterson took and twisted. So, it isn’t even a gift — it’s more like restitution. I maligned you; now I’m praising you. You must accept it, or this injustice will remain unresolved between us, and I won’t believe you’ve forgiven me for my verbal indiscretion in front of one of your peers.” He slid the envelopes across the table and glared at her for good measure.
Julia began to stare at his fancy hand-knotted bow tie in order to distract herself from the blazing blue of his eyes. She wondered how he’d managed to make the tie so straight and even. Perhaps he hired a professional bow tie-tier, just for that purpose. Someone with artificially blond hair and high heels. And very long finger nails.
She slid the Starbucks card back toward him defiantly. And to her great surprise, his face hardened and he pocketed it.
“I won’t play gift card ping-pong with you all evening,” he snapped.
“But the bursary can’t be returned. The money isn’t from me. I simply alerted Mr. Randall, the Director of the philanthropic organization, of your accomplishments.”
“And poverty,” Julia muttered.