As I walk toward the door, Andrew stops me. “I’m sorry if I went too far.”
His voice is calm. His eyes shy away from mine. He looks remorseful but also immersed by the need to “do the right thing”. He’s a good guy and he needs to show it. Although I did not expect the sudden concern.
I thought I would leave and we would not say another word, like a common, silent decision that this moment had existed on a parallel plan of the universe and it would never be spoken about again. That it would never be brought up over the next conversation.
The next conversation? What am I even saying?
Because I don’t answer, he continues. “I saw you there and you were the perfect opportunity for them to understand what I do. Sometimes, I’m a bit too passionate and I cross the line.”
He did. We don’t even know each other. This is the first real interaction we are having and not the usual questions we ask the other. It’s rather “what do you do for a living?”, “what’s your favorite color?” or even “when did you know you were going to be in research?”
And I’m normally very easy to upset or vex but he saw so much deeper than the average human. I can’t believe it’s only because of his specialty; he’s not just paying attention to details, he must have gathered information outside, must have asked the right people.
“How do you know my name?” I finally demand after a few seconds of awkward silence. I close the door of his classroom (one which was abandoned and which will be abandoned again in six months), shove my hands inside the pockets of my jacket and take a few steps closer to the desk and the board. He’s handling his notes, meticulously aligning them so they would fit better inside his file. His eyes are not as direct as they’ve been during his little speech. He’s not as confident now that we are alone. It’s a fun exercise, watching the signs. I could get used to it. Not that it changes my opinion on him and his work. In fact, it validates it. Everyone can do it. It’s not complicated. It doesn’t deserve someone actively researching this concept.
“Your name is the same as mine.”
“My real name. Mlynar.” The corner of his lips twitches up as I say my name with a Slavic pronunciation.
He leaves the papers over the desk and props his hand flat on the wood, before drowning his deep brown eyes into mine. “I read your early work.”
My eyebrow infinitesimally shot up but he sees it. And I already know he’s thinking that I’m impressed. Honored. I’m mostly wondering why he would read my work? The first time I finished an article and presented it; I decided to show the world who I really was. Rather young, fresh out of school with my Ph.D. in my pocket, I wanted to make a statement. I wanted for everyone to know what my origins were because it was important to me. Of course, I got a scowl from my father, who made long and painful speeches about how hard it had been to integrate the States. But I didn’t care. And the article was well received. They were just confused as to why my official name was different. And in retrospect, it might have lowered the estimation of success. “Which one?”
“The publication on bone marrow cancer.”
His expression switches immediately. For one second, his smile disappears and the seriousness develops an interest in my brain. It took me many hours to ferment this work and it had been terrifying to publish it. Because it held a personal and emotional twist that harsh critics would have attacked too violently. I did it for my family. One of the rare times where I saw pride and love in the eyes of my father. “Yeah?”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“You are very talented.” He says and his voice drops lower for some reason. His fingers drum on the wood and the vibrations roll over my body like the waves of loud bass slashing out of a concert speaker. His scent reaches my nose and I take a deep inspiration while keeping a stoic face.
“I worked hard,” I only answer and I’m not really sure why I say that. Like I’m not talented? I am but it feels like the importance of contradicting him is greater than the rest. Being against him is a necessity, even if that means I need to lie or go contrary to my own principles. He only watches me with utter concentration and I remember his first sentence as he wets his lips. “You went too far. Don’t analyze me again.”
“This wasn’t ‘analyzing’. I made wide assumptions regarding what I know about you.” He interjects immediately, picked.
“That’s what analyzing is for. Assumptions until proven otherwise. Fact checking data. You should know, as a researcher.” I can’t control my frown as I say the word and, of course, he sees it.
“I meant I could go to greater lengths. Today was just an introduction on the matter.”
“Too bad I won’t be here for the other lessons, professor.”
He huffs with a smile. “You act like I’m your ultimate nemesis and I think I know why.”
“Well, by all means, enlighten me, Doctor Miller.”
He looks at me as if millions of responses clash inside his mind. His attention is short-spanned and his eyes fall over every nook and cranny of my body and soul. When he meets my eyes again, he stops scrutinizing. “Your colleagues said you were lonely, unapproachable. But I didn’t feel that when we first saw each other. You were rather… happy, before you crossed eyes with the dean and the other professors. You’ve been here for three years and I guess you want something else. Probably because you’re very focused on the science part of this institute but not so much on the art part, and you wish to enter another university. It’s been a while since you’ve published anything, so I suppose your work here is taking too much time and energy. I’ve heard you were doing replacements as well. Maybe you wonder if being a professor is truly your vocation, maybe you want to reach higher but you hesitate because you don’t feel like you are good enough, and seeing me here, devoted and eager to actually do my job, to teach these kids my pass—”
“Stop.”
This is grabbing the line, tearing it apart and making confetti out of it.
For just a second, I forgot that he couldn’t even begin to understand what my life is. What I’ve been working my ass off for years without any reward on the other end. What I had to sacrifice for nothing. What I had to endure, what I had to listen to for hours, the people that thought they were smarter than me, more talented, more focused. They thought they were aspiring for more, that I wasn’t really searching for what I wanted.
I forgot that he was the picture of everything that I wished for and that being close to him is just a reminder of what he managed to succeed and what I failed. And now, he has the audacity to guess because of one or two pieces of information he must have traded with Caroline, the only other person I speak to in this establishment.
I go up on the platform. He knows. I see it in his face. In fact, I can see myself fulminating in his eyes, my reflection burning. He doesn’t want to lose face but can’t seem to apologize twice, so, we just stare at each other for a moment, in pure stillness.
Until I speak. “This isn’t what you know, this is what you imagine. Your work is just fabulation over micro-expression and attitude and posture, and it will never be a science. You know nothing about me.”
He has the decency to stay quiet but he doesn’t drop his gaze. We are both lost watching the other’s eyes like they hold the answers to our problems. Which is weird, because despite the anger I feel, I’m not especially submerged by the need to leave. To be far from him. To be away. I want confrontation. “Come and attend one of my classes. You’ll see, and you’ll tell me if I’m not good enough.”
When I say this, he looks at my lips, just for the words to sink deeper into his brain. He has come closer, I realize. That is why I caught his scent so powerfully. And as I walk back to the door, the attraction is cut sharp. His chest is rising furiously and I wonder if I pissed him off. Probably. Which was the point. Because he pissed me off. So, it’s only fair.
And that’s why I leave with a large grin on my face.
