VLAD
When I came to America, I knew three phrases in English: please, thank you, and Merry Christmas. I spent so many hours learning the language, leaving my Russian mother tongue behind, but one look at her, and I forgot it all. I forgot every American turn of phrase or nicety. All I could do was smile.
I knew the faces I passed on my regular path around the university. I saw the same students rushing off to class and staff heading from building to building, yet she was a new face creeping over me like a slow burn. She, and her pitiful excuse for a box, lingered in my mind like a sunburn after a long day by the water. She was too well-dressed to be some young undergrad, but she had the searching eyes of someone who didn’t know the campus.
Maybe she was a new employee?
Maybe I’d see her again.
It was too many hypotheticals for my liking. With a sigh, I stopped wasting time and got back to work. This wasn’t a fairy story. I was pushing forty, happy to be stuck in my ways, and probably not the kind of man that a young woman would like. I needed to be practical. I also needed to finish prepping for this essay assignment. Open office hours were starting soon, and I wouldn’t be guaranteed much time with students popping in and out.
A knock sounded at my door.
I sighed. Well, there went all my free time.
“Come in!” I called out.
The door hinges squeaked, and I caught the eyes of a girl from the leadership management course. Her, what was the word, quirky clothes and bright apple-red hair made her stick out in the lecture of fifty students.
“Hi, Professor Pechenko,” she greeted me in a high voice. “I know it’s not your office hours yet, but I’m in classes from eleven to three.”
I closed my laptop and smiled. “It’s fine, um….”
“Esther Jones,” she finished for me.
“Please, have a seat, Esther. How can I help you?”
She settled herself and overloaded book bag into the faded red armchair with an appreciative look. Esther was clever young thing, even if her off-beat exterior made some presume otherwise. She was eager to follow up with questions about their midterm project and the reflective essays. It seemed I’d be remembering her for a reason other than her hair.
Esther was the first of many students who peeked in, not surprising for so early in the semester. It was like the gym in January. Everyone was eager and excited, but in a few weeks’ time, the newness would lose its luster. The resolutions would lose their allure and be forgotten. It was just how the world worked.
There was an assertive older woman, a mature student, in a blue power suit from my finance course. She was going to be a long hauler. The others, they came and went with ease, most never expected to come back. The two hours moved with ease, and I found myself feeling that rosy glow of a burn again.
What was that beautiful woman doing right now?
When the afternoon rolled around, my stomach growled, and I yawned. It was time to follow my feet again out of the Harper Center, passing the brick Catholic church, and heading down South University Avenue with my brown paper bag in hand. Armed with my sandwich, I headed to the coffee shop that looked more like a hutch with a sunny yellow awning. Students and staff clustered around together, loitering on the sidewalk or sitting on the benches.
These were the orders of my life. These were the things I knew and got comfort from in turn. Just as I pulled the wallet from my suit jacket’s pocket, something caught my eyes.
I knew those dark curls, all pulled back in a ponytail now. Standing at the head of the short line, she was looking at the kiosk’s menu. Her gray blazer was gone, but I remembered how a few strands of those chocolate curls got stuck against her painted lips. I knew it all too well.
“Can I get a caprese sandwich and a, um, Arnold Palmer, please?” she asked, her tone lilting like an Irish lass.
The apathetic cashier pulled out a sandwich wrapped in plastic from some hidden fridge before filling up a plastic cup with lemonade and tea.
“That’ll be nine-seventy-five,” the man read back to her.
As she reached for the card in her purse, I got to see the profile of the face haunting me all morning long. She looked happier, to say the least, much calmer than when I found her. Her smile was relaxed, and her expression wasn’t heavy with frustration.
A swell of eagerness filled my chest. This was my second chance.
A dozen dumb lines ran through my head, bad pick-up lines I’d once heard in American movies.
Fancy meeting you here.
What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?
I don’t know your name, but I’m sure it’s as beautiful as you are.