Rubies And Wine

V-3

I remember the rushing joy that came over me when I stepped onto the campus. It was like a whole other world of tall, modern buildings with tall windows and smooth sidewalks with perfectly cut and green grass along its edges.

The buildings are tall and beige as if they came from a long lost, sandy utopia. White banners with green shields, the school's emblem, cover nearly every wall, light post, and awning. What surprises me the most is the people. They walk with such confidence, such pride in themselves as the walk against the light breeze.

I walk into a large, round building with tall glass walls and double doors, the psychology and behavioral science department. Inside, a peaceful, cozy, warm lounge opens up before me. Round, light blue sofas and creamy orange coffee tables are arranged in a circle in the center. Along the brick wall to my left are three screens projecting class schedules, upcoming events, and other campus information.

I take a bright white hallway behind the lounge and read the black plaques beside the doors to see if any are my room. Finally, I come by the last door in the hall, 347, and jiggle the handle. Sadly, it doesn't move and I peer through the rectangular window to see a large lecture hall dead silent and utterly empty. I look down at my pocketwatch, a gift from Drew after I told him I liked how they look, and check the time.

8:17. I always pride myself on being early. My mother would always laugh whenever I told her ten minutes early--or in this case, eight--was 'on time' to me. Unfortunately, this usually lead to situations like this where I wait while sitting on the floor, against the wall, with my knees pushed up.

Just as I contemplate doing that now, I hear footsteps behind me; steady, sure, and rhythmic. My eyes wonder over my shoulder as I see what I assume is a student who shares my love for being early. Male, Caucasian, late-thirties. Nothing of his appearance stands out that much to me. He's suited in black combat boots, worn jeans, a blue flannel button-up with the sleeves rolled, and thick, hipster glasses. His hair, more gray than black, jets upward. The only detail that seems abnormal to him is a tattoo on his right arm; a long, stalky root. It begins just before the nail of his pointer finger, grows along his forearm, disappears under his sleeve, resurfaces above his collar, and ends just below his ear.

I think he will begin to slow down and join me in my waiting but his pace doesn't falter. Instead, he reaches for a lime green keychain on his belt loop. He in clips it and separates one key from the rest; a brass one with a black, sharpie 'x' on the end. He slides it in, turns it, and it clicks. He has the key, he is the professor, and he is Mr. Birman.

"E-excuse me," I say timidly while I mentally slap myself for not shutting the hell up.

He turns slowly and the door now creaks open. His expression is dull. It appears more as he's analyzing me rather than acknowledging me. I wait for an response, only to quickly recognize I must strike up the discussion myself.
I slowly put my hand out towards him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. "My name is Emily Lage." He cautiously puts his hand out before slowly shaking mine. "It's a pleasure to be in your class."

Part of me expects more silence before his lips open. "Ms. Lage, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am professor Cole Birman." His voice is chillingly stern but still has a tint of youth to it. He leans into the doorway and examines the lecture hall. "I'm sorry, but ... I wasn't expecting students so early. I still have to set up my desk."

Stupid! "Oh. I understand. I'll just wait out here until class begins."

He looks up and down the hall for a sign that others were coming. "Don't worry about it. Come on in." He says. "Just take a seat and I'll get everything I need ready for the others to arrive."