Page 7 of Prosecco with My Professor
“Dorm.” I think back to the previous fall, moving my youngest child into their dorm room in LA. It’s very different from these quiet halls and humble apartments.
“Yes. Next to you, there’s a student at the fashion institute. The new one, down the hall”—he points in the general direction of the boxes—“is a professor. I think the same university as you?”
“That would be nice.” I picture a female professor who might be closer to my age, someone who could become a mentor or even a friend.
He leaves me to unpack, and as I’m trying to decide where to store my shell suitcase, there’s a knock at my new door.
There are voices in the hallway, but as I open my door, another one closes down the hall and there’s only one person outside. Well, one person and a barking dog.
A young woman, about the age of my kids, I estimate, stands in the hallway with the dog on a leash. The dog is stout, with one of those scrunched-up noses. A French bulldog, maybe? I’m not good with dog breeds.
“Oliver! Taci!” The woman glares down at the dog. When she looks back up, she brightens. “I am Eva. I live next door.” She gestures down the hall toward the boxes. Eva has a thick Italian accent, short dark hair, and a nose piercing. She smells faintly of cigarette smoke. Oliver is still harrumphing at me.
“Emma,” I offer her my hand, and we shake. “I hear you are a fashion student.”
“Yes, I am.” We chat for a few minutes until Oliver impatiently tugs at the leash to go back home. “Good luck with your studies,” Eva says as she walks away, which seems like a very final thing to say to someone who you’ll see every day, probably, but I chalk it up to a language barrier.
Back inside, I put a few more things away and check my phone. There are messages in the group text with my kids, who want to do a video call tonight and settled on nearly 10 p.m. my time. Also in the app are various “I’m home” messages from my friends, and I send them some pics of my apartment.
I fall asleep on the couch and wake up to darkness. Blinking in confusion, I sit up before looking out the window. Two golden, glowing eyes stare back at me.
I stifle a scream, my heart leaping in my throat, before I recognize that it’s a cat. They slowly blink at me.
My apartment doesn’t have a lot of windows, but there are two tall ones that face the building next door. They must have a ledge the cat is sitting on.
I stand, and the cat disappears before I can say or do anything else. I close the curtains anyway—no peeping toms, human or otherwise, are invited. Who lets their black cat roam freely at night?
4
Emma
I unpackand take several trips to the supermarket to buy all the things I need that I didn’t want to pack: toiletries, cooking supplies, new sheets for the bed, a hair dryer. It’s good to practice my conversational Italian—which I’m learning via an app—but also makes me very glad that the MBA program I’m enrolled in is taught in English.
My disastrous night with Santo is still pretty fresh in my mind, and I stare at the aisle of shaving creams, razors, and electrical implements that are, I’m guessing, by their packaging and color and some handy outlines on the back of the box, intended for women’s landscaping.
If I’m going to consider dating again or even just meeting someone in my classes, maybe I need to sit down and consider what I want to do to maintain myself.
I would rather do some research than buy something spur-of-the-moment that goes to waste, so I check out with my normal toiletries and head back to my new place.
Once unpacked, I pick up my phone and text my friends for advice.
Emma
Are y’all available for a phone call?
Sara
I am.
Tessa
Me too.
Jade
I’m out grocery shopping. The fridge is barren. Is this like a call-to-catch up or is this a level 5 emergency?
I take a deep breath.If I’m actually going to go through with this, then I should get more comfortabletalking about itwith my favorite people in the world.
