Page 60 of Prosecco with My Professor
I raise an eyebrow. “Probably?”
“Well, I can’t find my keys, and I’m assuming they are inside the door. It’s also possible I dropped them somewhere. Or that they are, in fact, in my bag but I can’t find them. Which has, unfortunately, happened before. Don’t worry, I’ve called the landlord.”
“I see.”
I should invite her to my place to wait, but I am grouchy and miserable, and I worry I’ll snap at her, and then I’ll have to apologizeagain.
But I’m still tempted. I think part of me just wants to spend more time with Emma, and honestly, that side of me can fuck right off. It’s hard enough to see her in passing at university and to hear about her, even off-handedly, from the rest of the faculty and to have moments like this one, where we’re essentially at home, and she’s still invading my thoughts.
“Good luck,” I say, perhaps with a bit more curtness than she deserves. Whether Emma notices or not, she gives me a chipper, “Thanks. Have a good night,” and I retreat to my apartment.
Zola greets me at the door with a meow, waiting impatiently for me to put my things down so I can properly greet her. Because of my back, though, I don’t bend down to pick her up, and after a few minutes, she storms off in a huff to her loft.
I change clothes and pour a glass of wine. There’s a football game on tonight, Roma versus Atalanta, that I plan to watch.
Mario, the landlord, won’t take long to get here with a set of keys, right? Emma’s in the hallway, not stuck outside where unscrupulous men might make her uncomfortable.
I recline on the couch, cushions supporting my lower back with my phone in one hand, glass of wine in the other, planning to catch up on emails and whatnot. Eventually, Zola joins me in her usual spot on my chest, and I ignore her, just how she likes it, and soon she’s purring and face planted.
About two sips into my wine and five emails down I give in. Sighing, I sit up, dislodging Zola, who makes her displeasure very well known. My back complains too, but tough shit.
I’ll just peek my head out. Maybe Emma’s not even there anymore.
Except I do, and she is. She looks up at me and gives me a tentative smile.
“Would you like to come in while you wait?” I ask.
She hesitates, and I feel less alone having debated the offer if she’s debating accepting. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Emma gathers her things, shoving most of it back into her bag but leaving two spiral notebooks on the floor—she’d unpacked quite a bit, perhaps in another attempt to find her keys. With an audible “oomph,” and her other hand pushing against the wall, she gets on her feet, wincing.
Her knees didn’t pop like mine do, but I know the feeling. She wiggles a bit, which does something quite nice to her breasts in her blouse, and when she catches me watching her, she blushes. “My butt fell asleep.”
I’m awash in guilt. By trying not to tempt myself, I’ve let her sit out for far too long. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, I suppose.
Emma bends down to pick up the last of the notebooks and holds them while I lead her into my apartment. When I close it, our gazes catch, and we’re face-to-face in this small entryway.
Months ago, in another entryway, I was on my knees. More recently, she was here on my bed, crying out while I ate her pussy.
Emma might be thinking the same thing because her eyes widen and her lips part. I can nearly taste her again; it’s such a thick memory.
And then Zola jumps off the couch and runs through the main room up to her loft, breaking the moment. I step back. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Please,” says Emma. She sets her bag on the floor and the notebooks on my kitchen counter. I almost ask what kind she wants—I have two more open in the fridge—but refrain. It’s too much like that first night, comparing her to wines. I pour a glass of the same wine I’m drinking and turn back to Emma. She’s looking at a framed photograph on the wall, a picture of me and Bell at her university last year.
“How’s Bell?”
“Good. She was here last night.”
“That’s nice,” Emma remarks. “The worst part about coming here was seeing my kids less. They’re in college, and only one of them is in Austin, so it’s not like my ex-husband sees them more, but still. I no longer am the place for laundry and a hot meal.”
I give Emma the glass of wine and return to my spot on the couch. She doesn’t sit with me but wanders the room, looking at my things. I don’t think there’s anything terribly interesting—old textbooks on the table, more photos on the walls, and the view out the window.
“There’s a football match—our football, your soccer. Would you like to watch it with me?”
“The only thing I know about soccer is the red card and the ‘goooooooaaaaalllll,’” she says with a smile. “Is it the same here?”
