“I don’t want anyone to misconstrue…”
“Ah.” I lean back in my chair, removing my hand from hers and resting it on my thigh. “You’re worried everyone will start talking about us.” I grin.
She nods.
“I can read the headlines of the papers now ‘Hot Professor Lands Mediocre Actor.’”
She laughs, “I thought you hated being in the news?”
“I do,” I grin. And pause. Something about being associated with Jane, about people knowing about my relationship with Jane, feels comfortable. Welcome, even. As if by making us public, I make us more secure.
“They’ll say we’re in love.”
“What?” She looks up sharply. “I doubt it.”
“We could pretend to be,” I smile again. Enjoying the way her cheeks turn pink all the way back towards her ears. “Give them something to talk about.”
She shakes her head, vigorously enough for a few pieces to fall from her bun and land across her cheek, her movements rattling the table beneath her palms. “No one would ever believe that.”
“Why not?”
She opens her mouth. A short, sharp exhalation of air. A cross between exasperation and indignation. Or perhaps even a laugh, small and sad and unfunny. She’s about to say something, some clever, witty remark, but she stops herself. A shadow flashes across her features. A pass of pain and sadness and even a hint of shame, in less than a second, sweeps across her features.
And then it’s gone.
“No one would ever believe that,” she says again. Simply. Like she’s stating the weather. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “So there’s no need to worry. Let’s go.”
She stands, pushing herself up from the table and jerking her bag across her shoulder. I follow her, and as we pass the group of four students waiting at the entrance, I see one of them look up. The first one, a young woman in light pink sweatshirt leans over to her friend, who looks up and whispers, not quietly, my name. The other two turn, see Jane, whip back around, heads spinning so quickly I worry they’ll hurt themselves.
“Oh my god,” I hear Jane mutter under her breath.
“Everything ok?” Dory asks from behind the counter.
“It’s fine,” Jane grumbles. She tries to push past, but an elderly couple open the door, moving too slowly and taking up too much space for us to slink out past the ogling foursome.
The students are all staring now, ignoring Mohammed, who is trying to seat them, and gawking in our direction. The two boys, lanky athletic types with caps on backwards gape, mouths open. The two girls have eyes so wide a fly could get caught inside.
“Dinner or dessert?” Mohammed attempts to ask the group again.
They don’t even hear him. They’re all staring at us.
One girl leans to the other, who shakes her head, and mouths No Way.
“Excuse me,” Jane says quickly, her voice low, as she inches towards the doorway.
The awkwardness again. The hesitation. She is desperate to leave this space. I can feel the mortification coming off her in waves and I don’t understand it.
In front of her students.
In her favorite restaurant.
That flash on her face. The shadow of sadness. I glance down at her and see her eyes are down.
I look at the group. The kids are young, probably nineteen or twenty. It’s been a long time since I’ve found that age group intimidating, but I remember when it was.
I also remember what I thought of my teachers when I was that age. The few semesters of college I completed before moving out to L.A. I remember how bored and boring I thought they were, thinking they were sexless and ancient when they were probably less than forty, and happily involved with someone much more interesting than their ignorant, irritating students.
It’s a shame, really, that young people don’t respect their elders.
I grin, reaching out and sliding my hand down Jane’s arm, in full view of our audience. I watch the young eyes bulge even larger, mouths hanging wider. Jane stiffens beneath my touch but doesn’t move. The older couples’ eyes glance down, then up again. Not a whisper of interest or scandal on their faces. The woman smiles at me, thinking she is witnessing young love, and attempts to hurry her husband out of the way.
Jane, on the other hand, is flashing between ghost white and tomato red with a speed that has me worried. I’m not sure if she’ll pass out or punch me in the face.
I see one student mouth to the other What the fuck? And I suddenly understand why Jane is upset.
These little shits make her feel bad about herself.
I glance at Jane, her glowing skin, wine-red lips, fantastic rack, all covering up her brilliant mind, hilarious sense of humor, and I don’t understand why she would be upset by them, these young kids, who probably congratulate themselves on inventing sex and beer.
I draw Jane’s hand up in my own, intertwining our fingers and pressing the soft skin of her palm to my mouth, all the while locking eyes with the gawking foursome. Jane’s eyes widen and I wink, drawing my tongue lightly across her hand.
The students are riveted. I have never held an audience so captive. Not even during that production of Hamlet, when all the actors got naked during the fifth act. I hear Mohammed repeat his question, probably for the fourth time now, but no one listens to him. Jane stands, avoiding eye contact, hand limp in my own. Body stiff as a rock.
She’s definitely going to punch me later.
I follow, still holding Jane’s hand in mine. We pass the group of students. Their eyes remain locked on us.
“Hey, uh, Professor Air,” one of the boys moves his mouth, words sticky and stiff as they climb from his lips. His eyes never leave her face. The others continue to gawk. “Nice to see you.”
“Good evening, Jeff. It’s nice to see you too.” Jane turns, tugging at her hand in mine. I pull her closer, using the momentum of her jerking movements to bring her back
