Page 61 of Prosecco with My Professor
I tilt my head back and forth. “More or less.” I turn the television on to the pre-match show and Emma joins me on the couch, finally.
After a few quiet moments of wine sipping and watching the TV, Emma speaks up. “I know you play. Is that how you got injured?”
“Yes.” I explain the strain and how I’m still recovering, but there’s not much to do but rest and let it heal. I don’t voice my concerns that I might not play again.
Emma frowns. “Soccer—I mean football—is a fast game. How do you keep up with other players? No offense,” she adds quickly, “but you are, um…”
Amused, I put her out of her misery. “I play on the over-fifty team,” I allow. “But it is still a tough sport.”
“Oh, right. That makes sense. Like how there’s age levels for kids. I can imagine it would be hard to compete with a twenty-year-old.” She pauses in thought. “I don’t work out much. Sara, my vegan friend?” I nod. “She teaches yoga, so I do her classes to keep somewhat healthy. Though you won’t catch me running.” She sips her wine as the players walk into the stadium, holding hands with young kids. “Do you play offense or defense?”
When I tell her I play winger, she looks at me blankly, so I explain the positions and by the time that’s done, the match has started, so then I teach her how football works. I’m sitting up, pointing out various moves and players on the screen, when Zola graces us with her presence. She winds around my shins while I’m explaining penalty kicks, and then she gets up on her hind legs, front paws on my knee, and meows at me.
I know what she wants, so I sit back on the couch and let her climb up onto my chest. I run an absent-minded hand over her back once she’s in place and purring.
“Huh, that explains it,” Emma says.
“Explains what?”
She gestures in a wide circle toward Zola. “Your white shirt had black hairs on it right at the center of your chest, and now I see why.”
I look at Zola, who’s put her face down already so I can only see the back of her head and her ears.
“What’s happening now?” Emma asks, and I return my attention to the match. Emma asks good questions, and seems to respect the game, for an American. She’s halfway through her glass of wine, and the smell of it and her is making me think about the night I met her.
Best to think about something else, especially with Zola in my lap.
We’re twenty-three minutes into the first half when there’s a slam next door and soft little yips come through the wall. Oliver is home. Zola lifts her head and her ears spin, contemplating whether or not she should complain about the noise.
Emma and I share a glance.
“Do you like dogs?”
Do I like dogs? Sure. Do I like Oliver? No. That little bastard barks every time I get my dick out, so no, I’m not a fan. I will not tell Emma that, though. That would cross a line.
“He scared you into pepper spraying me,” I say instead. The words are definitely bitter, but I suppose being pepper sprayed is enough to justify it, even if the little shit wasn’t the one pulling the trigger, and instead it was this bright, beautiful woman.
Emma chuckles. “True. I think it’s fair to hold a grudge, then. He barks a lot. Especially when…” She trails off, and then a flush spreads over her neck and cheeks.
“Especially when what?” I ask, though I already have a guess.
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Emma
I stammer.My cheeks are on fire, and Santo stares at me intently. “I…I….”
“Especially when what?” he repeats. His eyes narrow on me from behind his glasses.
Why, oh, why did I have to say that? Why am I such a hot mess that I can’t keep track of my goddamn house keys? Why did I even take Santo up on his offer?
My mind goes completely empty except for euphemisms for masturbation. Flicking the bean. Paddling the canoe. DJing.
God, Jade would be so proud.
Surely, there must be some reason for a dog to bark other than that the neighbor is masturbating.
Why do dogs bark?
