The Professor's Secret

7. Attonement Date

I couldn't help but ignore the garçon who, as soon as I set foot into the restaurant, started interrogating me – what was my name, did I have a reservation, where would I be sitting, etc... -, and that's because I could already see Professor Sycamore sitting in the distance, near the wall, at a small round table with two chairs. His legs were stretched ahead under the table, and both his ankles rested on each side of the free chair I was to claim for myself as soon as I gathered the courage to go there, almost as if he was defending that position. And looking now at his distracted face, I could almost understand why he felt the need: I'm sure every woman in that place wouldn't think twice before inviting themselves to sit with him if they chose to mistake his bored eyes for lonely ones... And amidst all of that was me, standing at the entrance desperately trying to shoot dead the butterflies in my stomach and inwardly begging myself to just go back to the hotel and pretend I was sick.

But my very self-aware conscience's answer was a solid no.

As I approached, Sycamore absorbedly mixed his drink – some brown-colored alcoholic beverage – with his long, pale finger. I wondered if he had been waiting long or if his drinking time usually started this early, but I didn't have to reflect long, for his eyes soon caught up with me:

"Oh! Anne! Have a seat, please..."

Luckily the retreat of his legs followed the recommendation, and I took the chair.

"Good morning Sy- Professor Sycamore!"

He smiled, pleased by my early correction

Calem and I had recently taken to calling him "Sycamore" only. The dismissal of the title might have been initially intended to spite, in Calem's case. As for me, it only helped me pretend to myself that I disliked him as opposed to how much part of me loved that I was getting to see him again.

"I'm so glad you came, after all!" He quickly sucked on his finger, wiping it clean. "I guess I won't be needing this anymore, will I?"

He embarrassedly laughed and placed his half-empty cup on the tray of the nearest garçon passing by our table. My puzzled expression probably made him comfortable again...

"I take it you've never been to this place?"

"No..."

"Then you wouldn't mind me guiding you through it, would you?" He flashed me an excited smile.

"Ugh... guide me... through what?"

"Why, through this place... the experience, the date itself."

Ugh! I wished he would stop using that word so casually.

"As a gourmet enthusiast..." He continued, "I insist! Mademoiselle?"

He removed his hand from his heart, where he previously held it in an elegant gesture, and stretched his long fingers towards me, offering his palm.

I could see through his playful smile that the hearty treatment, the word 'date' and the two of us alone wasn't of much consequence – the Pyroar had only been training his leap, rather than wooing a prey. So I carefully, awkwardly placed my hand inside his own; his grip encircled me comfortably.

He turned his head to the garçon then, calling him with a mute look.

"Are you ready to order, sir?"

"Actualy, uhm..." Sycamore hesitated, looking about himself "I would like to change tables into a more private space, somewhere we can talk without being bothered, isn't that right, Anne?"