October 2018
Bochum, Germany

While Ian gives his talk, I listen with bated breath not only to his deep, confident baritone but also to the meaning behind every word. With that piercing dark gaze, he looks through the camera lens--straight at me--as though we're talking over drinks. My heart flutters as he teaches me new ideas, showing me connections between art and science that I'd never considered possible.

Sure, he addresses the whole audience, but it feels almost personal.

My cheeks are flushed. It's like I can't get enough air in my lungs. As I stare at his lips, I desperately want to kiss him. Which is ridiculous because I haven't met him in person in over eight years. Social media, sure. I've scrolled through his profile more times than I care to admit, but that's not nearly the same as sharing thoughts and feelings. Sharing the same space. 

It isn't intimate. Social media is cold. Impersonal. It feels like there's an invisible wall with a whole host of etiquette and social conventions I don't quite understand.

If only we could talk this evening!

It's already midnight, though, my time at least. For him it's only dinnertime. Tomorrow I have to teach several morning classes, so I need to be compos mentis. That means not staying awake until four in the morning discussing the intricacies of science and the arts.

So we've agreed to postpone our meeting until tomorrow.

While I'm teaching the next day, time zips past at the speed of light. But once I alight the train and allow myself to fall into daydreams, one hour drips into the next as slowly as melting wax.

Until it's finally eleven at night.

As usual, Ian is five minutes early for our meeting.

Sure, we start off texting about music and mathematics, but our minds run away with us, chasing one tangent after the next. The effortless juggling of ideas. Just like it used to be when we were together. Flitting like butterflies from one concept to the next.

It doesn't take long before Ian decides to take things to the next level.

Ian: Would you like to turn on audio? Or video?

Ian: It would be so much easier than typing.

Damn it! It's past midnight, but I can't seem to help myself.

"How about audio?" I ask after clicking the little microphone.

Once Ian returns the favor, his deep baritone almost melts me. "Yes, can you hear me?"

Oh, dear Lord! Damn straight I can...with every part of my body.

With a simple sentence, Ian lights my heart and soul on fire. All the emotions I've hidden from him--from myself--for so long rush to the forefront of my mind. My soul burns as much for him now as it did all those years ago.

And it scares the crap outta me.

"Sylvia?" he asks.

"Oh, yes!" I say, breathless. "Yes, I can hear you."

He chuckles. "God, it's been so long since I heard your voice."

"Do I sound different?"

"No, you sound exactly the same." He pauses. "Maybe a bit more...mature?"

"Mature?"

"Your pitch isn't as high as it used to be."

"Really?"

He hums in reply. "And you have a slight German--" He pauses. "Not an accent, but a cadence, perhaps? Slightly more clipped. Precise."

I chuckle. Always the analytical type.

Some things never change, and that gladdens my heart. But then I start to feel slightly self-conscious, wondering if he might find it unappealing.

"Perhaps it's because you teach," he muses under his breath, almost to himself. "You sound more sure of yourself. Authoritative."

Oh, God! I sound like a domineering asshole!

My shoulders slump. "Oh..."

"But that's a good thing," he rushes to add. "Not that your voice wasn't pleasant before, but it--it's just--it's great to hear you, anyway."

Whew!

"You don't have to beat around the bush," I say. "I've spent over eight years in this country, and Germans are notoriously blunt."

"Stereotype isn't far from the truth?"

"In many cases, not really." A few exceptions pop to mind, but they're outweighed by people on the other far end of the spectrum. "I like it."

"As do I."

"At least you know where you stand, ya know?" I say. "Americans, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, can--oh, I don't know--"

"Blow smoke up your ass?"

It makes me chuckle every time Ian swears. Like someone has turned the Earth upside-down and inside-out. It also means he's starting to relax.

"Yeah!" I gesture at the camera even though he can't see me. "Like, they wanna be polite, but it just comes across as disingenuous."

"Maybe we should hang out sometime," he says in a dismissive tone.

"Ugh, yeah! Who needs it?"

"What would a German say?"

"Fuck off?" I say in jest before adding, "Nah, they'd just be factual. Or simply not say anything. Or, if pressed, say it wasn't their thing."

"Jesus, now I wanna live in Germany."

"Right?" I exclaim, my heart swelling at the prospect that Ian is finally starting to understand. "Europe is so much better than the States."

Silence falls. A deadly silence.

One that threatens to destroy all the goodwill we've built.

Ice drips down my spine. Oh, shit!

"In some ways, I mean, but not all, of course--obviously," I add with a nervous chuckle. "Anyway, how's Holy Cross?"

He inhales deeply. "So far, so good. It'll take a few years until the final verdict."

"So exciting!" A grin spreads across my face. "Imagine that. Tenured associate professor. You deserve it."

"Perhaps I've earned it," he says in a firm tone. "No one deserves anything apart from the hard work and quality they put into their research."

"That's what I meant." I furrow my brow. "Meritocracy, of course."

"There we can agree."

I can't help but notice the clipped tone in his own voice ever since I mentioned Europe.

"Hope you didn't think I was being disparaging about America."

"No, you raised a very valid point."

"Yeah, but it pissed you off."

"It takes a great deal more than a slightly reductionist statement to piss me off, as you phrase it," he retorts.

"Come on, embrace your inner German," I tease him. "I made you angry when I said it."

He doesn't reply.

"I'm sorry." If only he could feel how my heart clenched, he'd know I was serious. "I didn't mean to bring back bad feelings."

He doesn't reply.

"Or to make you feel upset or offended." I pause, biting my lower lip.

Damn it! How do I fix this?

"Genuinely, it was a throwaway remark that I regret."

God, say something! Do something! Yell at me or whatever!

"Apology accepted," he says. "Now let's talk about something else."

Whew! Crisis averted, I hope...

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Lady's choice."

"Okay."

No pressure then...

After exhaling a heavy breath, I venture toward a dangerous topic that we used to love to discuss. If it's gonna make us or break us, better find out sooner rather than later, am I right?

"Can you explain why American politics has become so crazy?" I ask. "I mean, what is up with the Republican party? And the Democrats! Ugh!"

He laughs out loud. A genuine one that tells me everything will be alright.

Only then can I exhale a shaky breath. But I can still feel my pulse throughout my whole body, I'm so nervous.

"I don't think anyone can explain it." As odd as it sounds, I can hear the smile in his voice. "On either side of the aisle."

"Trump or Clinton!" I exclaim. "It was like choosing between death by firing squad or death by lethal injection."

Another laugh slips past his lips. Yep, we've always been able to bond over our disdain of politics.

"Let's just say I had to hold my nose when I went to the polling station."

"Not a Trump fan, huh?"

"He's an unprincipled, immoral, unethical, disgusting pile of human excrement who hasn't earned a tin can, much less the Oval Office."

"But you still voted for him, of course, right?"

"I voted for the Republican Party," he says in a firm tone. "There's a difference."

"Is there though?" I ask in a facetious tone. "Is there really?"

"Absolutely," he replies. "I despise the man, but I favor conservative policies when it comes to running this country. Trump doesn't change that fact."

"You could have written in another Republican," I insist. "I made a protest vote. Since the Republican Party couldn't get its act together, this conservatarian voted Libertarian all the way."

"That played straight into Clinton's hand."

"Yeah! How dare a woman take office!"

He scoffs. "Is that what you think of me?"

"Would you vote for a woman?"

"Absolutely," he says to my astonishment. "Show me a woman who stands for honor, loyalty, truth, and all the other values this nation should embrace, and she will earn my vote as surely as any man."

A wry chuckle falls from my lips. "But--let me guess--all women serving in politics are frightful, immoral hags destroying the very fabric of our nation."

"Not certain the term hag is appropriate," he says in a matter-of-fact tone. "But it's rare to find a principled person of any gender serving in office."

"What to do? What to do?" I say, teasing him. "No one on God's green earth meets Professor Caruso's high and mighty standards."

"Perhaps one or two."

"Oh, yeah? Who?"

It takes him a moment to reply. "You would, for instance."

"Me?" I exclaim. God, if you only knew how I've sinned, you never would have said that. "Hell, I haven't even glanced at politics since I graduated."

"Surely that's an exaggeration, or you have indeed changed beyond all recognition."

"Sure, I keep up-to-date on current affairs because it's useful for class," I say, "but I wouldn't go near any form of administration with a ten foot pole."

"A shame," he says in a gentle tone. "You'd make a brilliant analyst."

My heart swells with pride. "You think so?"

"A shoe-in for the State Department." He clears his throat. "With your aptitude for languages, intelligence, rationality, and a love of culture?"

"I'd make a terrible diplomat."

"True, but you could advise the diplomats." He pauses. "From what I hear, you already consult with all sorts of businesses to teach them English."

"Oh, Ariana!" I mutter.

If ya want the Sixth Fleet to know something, just tell her. The whole damn navy will hear about it within six microseconds.

"She's proud of you," he says. "Don't hold it against her. So is Helena."

My brain takes the idea and runs with it. "Perhaps in an alternate universe, I could be working for the Foreign Office."

A thoughtful silence falls between us as I toy with the idea in my mind.

"Speaking of Ariana," he says, "she tells me you're a year away from a great achievement of your own."

"Just a master's degree in literature and linguistics."

"You have a terrible habit of understating your abilities and achievements."

"Okay, I'm a kick-ass academic who is about to rock the University of Bochum's world with my brilliant insights on childhood bilingualism."

"Better."

I chuckle. "It's not that hard, you know? I'm working full-time and getting A's. Yeah, the thesis will kick my butt, but it's not possible tenure."

"You certainly don't find it difficult," he says, "but the vast majority of students would find the course very challenging indeed."

"Yeah, because they aren't native English speakers!"

"The linguistics part of your course is taught in German," he retorts.

"How do you know that?"

Silence falls.

"Have you been checking up on me?" I ask teasingly.

"I wanted to satiate my curiosity about your subject," he says in a defensive tone. "Nothing more."

"Mm-hmm."

"Seriously!"

"Yeah, right." A wry chuckle falls from my lips. "Let me guess? You've considered studying Applied Linguistics one day? Let me save you the trouble. The subject is dead, at least in this country."

"No, I wanted to understand the difference between Applied Linguistics and other related fields." He pauses. "That way if it ever came up in casual discourse, I wouldn't make an embarrassing mistake due to my ignorance."

"Fine, explain it to me."

"Really?"

"Really."

To my surprise, Ian proceeds to launch into a very detailed yet accurate explanation that would have earned him an A in our Intro to Linguistics course.

Sweet Mary, Mother of Jehosaphat!

Maybe he was simply curious.

Still, that's a big deal, right? I mean, Ian cared enough to look into my subject. One that has absolutely nothing to do with his line of work.

"Satisfied?" he asks.

"Yep, you passed with flying colors."

"What a relief," he says in a sardonic tone. "Don't know what I would have done had you failed me."

"You might have had to admit the truth."

"What truth?"

The words slip past my lips before I can restrain them. "That you can't stop thinking about me."

Silence falls again.

Oh, crap! That might have been a bridge too far.

No, correction. That was definitely a bridge too far.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!

___

Word count: 2,011
Total word count: 19,905/40,000