Page 12 of Prosecco with My Professor
“No wonder she hates you.”
“She hates everyone.”
Dressed once again, we make our way out to the hallway, and I close my door behind us. “She likes me.”
He eyes me skeptically. Just before we moved to the new apartment, Zola made her displeasure well-known, and I had a few angry scratches on my arms. Even before that, she hid when anyone came over. She’s always been like that, ever since I adopted her. But in the new place, her anger lurks in the living spaces even when she doesn’t. I’d forgotten how bad the wrath of Zola can be.
“She needs to get used to her new space,” I say for the fifteenth time in a few days. “She’ll be fine.”
6
Emma
It’sa ten-minute walk from my apartment to the university where I’ll be getting my first—and hopefully only—postgraduate education. I walked by the building two days ago, just scoping the place out, figuring out where to get a cup of coffee or grab lunch during my breaks.
I still can’t believe I get to live in Rome, much less get my MBA.
It’s relatively early and I want to be well-caffeinated for my first day in classes, so I stop at the coffee shop near my apartment to pick up a cup.
I haven’t quite figured this out yet. Last time I ordered un caffè and got an espresso, which is a little intense for me. I hang back a bit to eavesdrop on other people’s orders—a tip Tessa gave me—and figure out how to get something closer to my regular order at the coffee shop back home.
After a few minutes, though, I give up and order a caffè freddo off the menu. I wait for it at the counter after fumbling with my bad Italian and thanking the barista in English.
The guy next to me catches my eye.
“American, yes?” He’s in his twenties, possibly, with deeply tanned skin and a floppy haircut. His smile is friendly.
I nod.
“What is your name?”
“Emma,” I say.
He steps close. Too close. “You American women like Italians, no?”
“Uh…”
His grin shifts, and it’s not so friendly anymore.
This isn’t the first time in my few days here that I’ve encountered unwanted attention, but this is definitely the most forward one.
“Emma, che bella che sei. I can help you, you know.”
My drink appears like magic, and I grab it. The southerner in me politely grits my teeth and says goodbye while walking away.
I make it out the door but move faster when he calls my name outside the shop. I take the next left turn, even though I’m not sure it’s the correct direction.
Keeping the pace up for a few minutes, I try to shake the encounter off. I’ve been catcalled once already. It was with my friends, and maybe the guy wasn’t catcalling me specifically, but it was enough that we stood closer together walking to the Pantheon.
I pull out my phone and figure out how to get to class, glad I got up early enough on the first day to account for some unforeseen circumstances. Soon, I’m at the university.
I gaze up at the building. There’s nothing special about it at all—it looks like the many other buildings in this neighborhood in Rome—bland, rather plain facades. But this building brought me thousands of miles away from the only life I’ve known.
Okay, this building and some peer pressure from my friends and gentle encouragement from my kids.
The degree at the end of my one-year MBA program is the carrot, and my ex is the stick.
He can take that stick and shove it up his?—
