I lock the door, take off my coat and watch mindlessly out the window.

  I’m on the fourth floor. Medford is a few minutes away from Boston, yet my father wanted us to be here, because his law firm was here, and since we have basically no say on any matter, we just nodded and accepted our fate. Not that I would have been capable of telling my father anything. I was ten, at the edge of eleven when we flew out of Slovakia.

  I love it there. It’s so different from the US. People are more down to earth. The landscapes are magnificent, charged with so much history and culture. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, maybe there’s not much more there than there is in any other country, maybe our societies are so deep into capitalism and egotistic behaviors, there is just nothing to save. Nowhere.

  Some words and expressions have lingered with me. I’ve been living in America longer than I’ve been in Slovakia now, yet it’s like I don’t really belong. And for legitimate reasons.

  The mirror above the dresser still shows the cut on my nose. Most people don’t pay attention to it, at least when they first meet me, but whenever I point at it, talk to them about what happened, they usually stare. And then pout. And then set their hands on my shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. I don’t need their pity. I’ve toughened up with the years and the forced “experiences.” They say they are sorry. And I thank them. Then we move on with our lives.

  My hand grabs my whiskey bottle as a reflex after a very demanding moment. The smell of this characteristic beverage fills my nose and I already feel better. I recognize it’s bad and I do restrain myself from taking one glass each night. Unfortunately, I need to unwind very frequently, and more unfortunately, alcohol does just that. As my behind falls on the comfy sofa of my living room, I wonder if I should end this evening watching TV. There isn’t anything interesting on there usually, but if I could manage to find a movie to fall asleep in front of, the gibberish of words would make it easier to catch up on the hours of deprived rest I’ve been accumulating.

  One, two, three, four, five channels later, I find one. The title rings a bell. A romantic comedy. The worst ones. There are all the sexy actors and actresses and they obviously lust for each other in a heartbeat. Because, of course, it’s love at first sight. As if love wasn’t a concept that needs to be nurtured. Never about someone ugly or with a particular feature that makes them unattractive through the scope of us, humans, and our beauty canons. For some reason, my fingers stroke my nose. I feel the bump and the cut.

  But this one starts differently. The couple is at the restaurant. The guy made absolutely no effort clothes-wise, and the woman cleaned herself for the occasion. They try to follow the conversation, she’s looking away, I shake my head for real, sensing something wrong is about to happen. And my eyebrows lift when she asks for the divorce.

  My neck hurts from watching the TV at a weird angle while I fill my glass a second time. Back on the couch, one hand above my head, feet on my small table, I realize I won’t be catching up on these hours of sleep.

  The next morning, I wake up in the same position. My arm is numb, the TV went off at some point because it’s pitch-black right now and I remember quite well losing focus after the movie ended, and a documentary on sea corals commenced. As I watch the clock, I’m not late, but I need to shower, brush my teeth, change my clothes and prepare my briefcase with all the papers needed for the start of the new year in about thirty minutes. Doable.

  When I hop in my car, I’m having approximately five minutes remaining and a twenty-minute car ride. Unlikely doable.

  While I finally arrive, Caroline, the woman at the reception, grins with her perfect white teeth. “Well, Doctor Miller, I see you are right on time.” She’s playing, obviously, but I give no signs of stress.

  “These reunions always start late. And I’ve heard the speech four times already.” Being here for my fifth year.

  She shakes her head, pointing at her coffee machine. I lift my hand up. “I’ve brushed my teeth already.”

  “This year is different, Alexej.” She pronounces it right. Which is the main reason why I agreed to share my attention and affection with her. Some of my colleagues and most of the employees here haven’t even made the gesture. Or had the decency to ask. Which is the main reason I don’t talk to them.

  She comes back to her chair, high enough for her to see past the counter. I play with my rings on my fingers. “How so?”

  “We have a new professor.” Her smile gives me a weird impression. A strange sensation in my stomach.

  “Are they replacing someone?” I ask, suddenly afraid that my own bonus of replacements, securing some more money for the year, and possibly my dream position, just have been rejected.

  “ isn’t. He’s here for a semester.”

  A voice on the microphone calls my name and we immediately stop talking. “Dr. Miller is asked to the room 15-04. Dr. Miller, room 15-04.” I grab my briefcase on the counter and throw over my shoulder, “Nice seeing you, Caroline.” I only have time to see her wave with her usual rictus on her face.

  The room 15-04 is a large area with an enormous round table and numerous chairs. It is used for all the meetings we usually have during the year, and also whenever someone is summoned by the dean. We, as teachers, can use it for our parents-teacher’s rendezvous, if it is ever needed, which is almost never the case. The students here have between twenty and plus years, and at this point, their creators consider they have to fly with their own wings. It happened twice since I’m at Tufts.

  The first time was because a male student was harassing everyone for copulative sex during his breaks, and sometimes his classes. We had to warn the parents that the police were going to be involved and several plaints about to be deposited.

  The second was an excuse for one of the teachers to nourish his adulterous affair with one of the parents with total impunity. Since it wasn’t usual at all, their plan got quickly uncovered and they were expelled. Their whole reputation was tarnished. Their future publications were immediately canceled. Just for a few minutes —seconds for the less resilient— of questionable pleasure. The kinds of decisions I would never take.

  It made me think of the movie from the night before. The ex-husband had an affair with one of the teachers his son had, fundamentally oblivious of the fact. Surprisingly, the ex-wife yelled at him, told him he was a pig, a womanizer, but she also felt proud and even pleasantly amazed he would be capable of such things, since he always rested on his laurels when it came to putting in efforts for their marriage.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  The bar is so low.

  As I get close to the room, I see the door already open, with most of my colleagues inside. Only the School of Arts and Sciences is represented here, but the department already possesses a fair number of professors and doctors. I can name so few of them. Reciprocally.

  While squatting to grab the piece of paper that fell from my hands, the dean’s voice exclaims. “Ah! Doctor Miller!”

  “Yes,” Both me and someone behind me say.

  I’ve never liked that name. Miller is not my real name. It’s Mlynar, but nobody could properly pronounce it, so my father first changed it to Milar. Only, for him, it wasn’t American enough. So, he switched again for Miller. The seventh most frequent last name in the US. An estimated population of more than one million and one hundred Millers.

  Miller is the direct translation of our Slavic last name. Still. I don’t like it.

  We look at each other. He’s just a little bit smaller than I am. And the first thing that sweeps me like a slap in the face is his scent.

  I’ve always had a particular connection to smells. My brother would make me recognize different types of food while being blindfolded. And my score was very often flawless. People’s perfume is frequently a problem, as they like to pulverize so much, they become a walking bottle on their own.

  His is subtle. Like a nice after taste of someone’s favorite meal. He smells like clean clothes and fruity shower gel. His hair is combed and the path his fingers took to apply the wax is still visible, but gives him this effortless look everyone seeks. His eyes are dark, specks of gold inside a pool of profound brown, like swirling chocolate and I don’t know how many seconds we stay like this, facing each other, scrutinizing the little details, but at some point, my superior clears his throat and the spell is broken. “Doctor Andrew Miller, please, welcome to Tufts University.”

  Andrew Miller.

  Another Miller.

  One of the million and hundred Millers.

  Like me.

  He gives me a very nice smile, one that says very pleased to meet you in a polite and impartial way and I already don’t like him. Everyone sits down, Andrew Miller close to the dean, to his right to be precise and he… snorts? Who is this guy?

  “I would like to introduce you; Doctor Miller. He professed to this establishment a few years ago before he specialized in contemporary art and scientific forms of non-verbal expressions. He’s been a real asset to our Cognitive Development Lab.”

  The others nod with large grins on their faces. Andrew is very calm, his hands crossed on the table, watching each of the teachers with attention. Too much attention. “He accepted, after what some might call harassment of my part, to teach a few classes for the following semester on the subject of synergology.”

  And I’m the one who snorts.

  His eyes automatically fall into mine, but I keep my condescending smile. Synergology isn’t a science. It lacks rigor, multiplies the misdiagnosis and misleads hurting families into believing whatever these charlatans would invent to pretend they understand medicine as real scientists do. I’m grinning but really, my blood has started to boil. Four years that I teach in this institution and work on real matters like auto-immune diseases and cancer and nobody gave me the chance to show all that I am capable of, but this man has been implored to present his completely stupid and irrelevant non-science? I have to be dreaming. This is a nightmare.

  Please, wake me up.

  “That’s right,” he says, with a honey-coated voice, eyes fixated on my face. Is he searching for the answers of his life in my soul? Did he finally understand this was a terrible idea and he should just abandon it? Go back to whatever his research is about? Probably sitting on a chair for hours, watching people talk and dance and move until one lightning strike of revelation finds him: that his work is pointless.

  He stays silent just a second too long and everyone around readjust on their seats. My father’s words come back like a punch in the stomach. .

  I’m the one who breaks the glance.

  “I’ve been… pondering on the idea a while now, but I ultimately accepted,” he turns toward the dean and rests his hand on his shoulder. “No harassment here, don’t worry about it.”

  They both chuckle and I really wonder what is happening. I cross my arm over my chest, sigh not too loud but he caught on that because he darts his focus on me way too much. “In an Art and Science institution like this one, I imagined it was the best place to introduce synergology. Some of you might be skeptical and I understand,” I can feel him looking at me but I pretend my rings on my fingers are more interesting, “I gladly invite these people to join me for the first lectures. They might change their mind.”

  I know I won’t.

  Change my mind attend his class. But I still nod, finally glance back up and he’s still looking at me. Is something on my face? Did a pimple appear last night and this morning was such a rush I haven’t noticed? Am I a black hole? “I’m sure they will,” the dean answers and begins his usual speech I’ve heard four times already. Andrew doesn’t look away and I hate it. Hate that he’s using his so-called specialty to scan every single pore of my being. Hate he’s pretending to understand my game, when there is no game, I just don’t like him or his field. Hate that the more I meet his gaze, the more information I might be giving away but I just cannot fail and lose to this man. I won’t allow it.

  He's amused by it. My skepticism. It’s written all over his face. The specialist of synergology is an open book, how funny is that? I don’t need a Ph.D and a lab for my research to read the minds of people. It’s either sex, love, money, food or all of the above. Humans are simple.

  So, the battle continues.

  “I hope this year will present great opportunities for you all, and as you all are aware now…”

  “Your door is always open,” everybody responds, some with more energy than the rest. I stay quiet. I’ve lost my appetite for opportunities and the dean knows it all too well. The number of hours in his office, trying to explain how important it was for me to find a position in a lab, to quit that tenure-track and be completely focused on my research, on my publications, my findings. Even with Isabella backing me up.

  While Andrew has free use of a lab to do… whatever he’s doing there, but still decides to educate people with his prestigious knowledge that would answer questions like “does my boyfriend want to get in my pants or am I completely hallucinating?”

  “Also, as we have two Doctor Millers now, we will be adding their first name for better clarity. Is that alright with you, Alexej?” the dean smiles at me.

  He pronounces the J like in the word jeans. Which pisses me off more than I would admit. But, as I’ve explained multiple times, he seems incapable of learning. “Perfect,” I respond, grinding my teeth. Could this be over yet? It’s been four years since I’ve had a smoke, but these kinds of reunions could make me give up and light one.

  “Andrew?” he adds, watching his new pretty protégé with glowing eyes. The latter nods, his even more glowing smile stretching his thin lips, draped with a three-day mustache and beard.

  We clap (never really knew why, to thank him? I have not much to thank him for) and stand up. Mr. Haynes and Doctor Andrew Miller shake their hands, grinning, blabbering about something I can make up from where I am, and exchanging like they’ve been around each other for twenty years. Are they from the same family? Has he been favored because of an obscure reason? Did he blackmail the dean? Surely, it can’t only be because of his position in the lab’s establishment.

  “Do you need something, Alexej?” the dean cuts my train of thoughts.

  My mispronounced name loops inside my head.

  Andrew is meticulously listening and it’s almost like he’s heard everything. But he can’t. He’s not in my head. Yet, his features display an expression of pity. And I hate him even more for it.

  “No, Mr. Haynes. Good day.”

  As I turn around and leave the room, I swear to myself that I’ll ensure we never see each other again.