Did I mention its my birthday? Have a chapter on me, I hope you enjoy!

Fortune forbids me seeing her that evening and then the next.

I do not think on the matter much. Edward's playing distracts the chance to think of it.

So in the shaded light of the evening, I sit in the chair of the common room, my notes spread about the desk with my laptop open and an ear bud in. He's played the piece three times in the space of an hour though for every correction he makes, a minute error comes out elsewhere.

I'm in the process of marking the mistakes by way of tally. Interruptions were becoming too disruptive.

'How is that?' he asks, his voice grated from the microphone.

That is another misfortune. Good internet connections could only do so much and with even our technology suffering, his notes might came out apt, but he looked like a pixelated Picasso .

'Better,' I answer, briefly un-muting myself. I look to the number of nicks on the page. 'Less that time.'

He grunts, runs his fingers up the scale rather jarringly and sighs.

'Ready?'

'Mm hmm.'

Then he plays, bending his posture over the keys, having them move and sway about the empty room as if I were in the sitting room and not several states away.

In spite of his growls and his grumblings, he plays beautifully of course. The mistakes are frequent but the general ability is admirable. He plays long enough for me to study most of my work without threat of disruption.

Before I retire upstairs.

With a cavern for a stomach, I snack a little on one or two of the peanut butter chocolates in my refrigerator. Snack is a loose term. I eat two before I remind myself that I'm nearing the end of them and if I'm not careful, I'll soon be left with nothing.

The majority of my thoughts centre mostly on my lessons that evening. They start that way of course... and then with the remnants of chocolate on my tongue, thick peanut butter in my teeth, I decide it's better to wash and sleep. Much to my lack of notice, I half end up chewing on bristles. Running the water of the ensuite, the fog fails to clear my head and once naked and tense from the day's stresses, I remind myself that it is only natural to wish to alleviate pressure...

Washing my hair first, smoothing suds over my body and rinsing provides a nice warm up. Now alone of course, truly alone, I could grant myself the finer pleasures.

I only have a semi-on when I start but taking my time, lengthening myself in my hand soon stiffens matters.

The sweetness is still coating my tongue, tainting my saliva as the silk soap slips from my washed skin. It'd been a while. Not as long as it could've been but still long enough. A week or so. Just over? The joints were already starting to loosen, my erection beating into my hand as I beat into it. Shifting from the direct fall of the water, I arch my back inward. A firm grip tightens a little and twisting at the tip, I wrench my eyes closed.

Remnants of my midnight snack interweave on my tongue and enjoying my hand, my forced massaging, I catch a brief glimpse of a figure behind my shut eyes. It makes me jump at first. For no real reason other than confusion and with my eyes closed again, I remind myself of the journey I am attempting to take. The long road...

This time, when the image comes upon me, the recognition shames me so brutally that I slip into the back tiles.

I'd- I'd never thought of a woman before...

Not for the purposes of pleasuring-

'Merda.' I mutter, half throwing myself out of my hand, breathing hard from my stomach. The phone... My phone is ringing.

I jump out the water red cheeked, flushed, still guiltily hard and answer the jingling.

'Hullo?'

'Carlisle?'

Oh Lord. I wrap the towel tighter around myself and try to find a breath in between focusing on the right language.

'Er, hello-'

'Why are you out of breath?' She laughs, accent tumbling through the receiver. 'Have you been running?'

iI's about now that I'm reminded of the real sin to masturbation.

'Uh.. y-yeah?'

'Oh Well done you. You're too good-'

'Is everything okay?' I ask, drying my face with cotton.

'Mm, you're free tomorrow lunch, right? You don't have lessons then?'

'No?' I respond mildly surprised that she'd remembered. I needed to not be flattered. Anything arousing to my ego was making it difficult to remain respectful. And even if she couldn't see my current state... I still had an irrational fear of being kicked out by the Dean. 'No, I'm free-?'

'So... there's this Mexican place towards the Sport's School. I thought maybe-'

Mexican food sounded like an absolute disaster.

'Sounds great,' I say instead.

'That's what I thought,' She laughs. 'Anyway, if you wouldn't mind returning my plate too, that'd be-'

Oh her plate. I had stolen it since she'd bestowed the gift of desire last week.

'I'm so sorry- I'll bring it-'

'No rush,' She says, her words like silver. 'Anyway, I'll meet you-'

'Outside the auditorium? You have lectures right?'

'I. Er..Yeah. How'd you know?' she asks, sceptical.

I had no idea how I knew. Instinct. I'd probably picked it up somewhere. Maybe she'd mentioned. Maybe I'd asked.

'Er-'

'Anyway, I'll catch you tomorrow!' She says cheerily, quite eager to hang up and head to bed I would've thought. 'Sleep Well, Carlisle.'

'And you.' I say, hearing the click from her end of the line. Yes, sleep well... Sleep... Get some sleep.

My eyes scale down myself now lodging at the pouch of my stomach, the trail of fine light hair. Somehow I have ended up with an elbow pushing into my leg, my hand scrunched in my wet hair...

Sleep well.

I don't sleep well. I sleep guiltily.

I'd never really fantasied about women before. It was a peculiar addition to my intrigue. I didn't... well I knew I wasn't... I always suspected if either, I would more likely be attracted to women...

But I'd never conjured up such specific examples. Not while... enjoying myself. Similarly, I wasn't completely naive. I understood what sex was. I'd seen it displayed in films and... magazines that had since been discarded. Pictures and the such.

Never before had I... craved it. I couldn't be sure I craved it now. I was too, er...

'Urgh.'

Wrestling with the thought then, I tie myself in the covers and decide to lay off the masturbation for a while. At least till I could gain some control over the direction of my desires.

'I can't believe you're making me late to my own invitation!' She chides, racing down the stairs of her building to meet me. She moves in such a blur, I almost think she's going she's going to plummet to an unfortunate and rather sinister fall. Rather, her feet land her in a candescent allegro, her grin lifting her dimpled cheek.

My hands had come up in automatic panic, fingers splayed ready to catch a hold, though they had remained tucked inwards. Cautious, I retreat them into my pockets.

'Good afternoon,' she greets, tilting her jaw in a way that catches the light on the zygomatic bone of her face.

'A-afternoon,' I respond, tucking the ends of my hair into my collar.

Again, she's wearing the dark jeans she'd ought to have gotten rid of a long time ago. The ones with the rips in the thighs. I am almost inclined to ask why she hadn't retired them yet. Having acknowledged to myself that I am looking at her thighs however, and not the knee-high boots, I throw my eyes away and stubbornly glare towards the route ahead.

'Are you well?'

'I didn't buy coffee-' I blurt.

She pulls her mouth into a lipstick pout, flicking her high braid over the shoulder of her leather jacket so that the shape of her jaw is softened by the strands.

'So I see,' She teases, suspiciously.

'I just thought-'

As ever, I had little understanding of what I thought. Far less understanding of what I felt. Tied to some extent. Like my stomach had knotted and buried the suggestion away.

'Should we walk?' she asks, indicating ahead of herself. I nod and resigning my lack of conversational ability to minimal creativity, ask about her family.

As if the colours of her were not already bright enough, they glisten at this question and within mere moments she thrives off the retelling of her niece, the pride rolling details forth as if she were painting in front of my eyes. She seems to have no misery to the cold weather. Unbothered, as if her recounting provided the sunshine needed.

She warmed like sunshine. Provided warmth like it.

'Do you have children in your family?'

Again, I shake my head. Of course I was familiar with them in the sense that Edward had been one. That and Elizabeth had helped at the Kindergarten school not far from their home. Of course the community had them too. Rare was a time that I would walk through the park without passing a pushchair or a toddler, waddling around it's parent's legs with some kind of chew toy in their mouth.

'Well they have this insane ability to make everything... I don't know just... tender, you know?'

She moves her hand upwards when she says this, gesturing off somewhere distant. Luckily she elaborates before I have to ask.

'They were just so late and I was grumpy and my mother- well, anyway. The moment I saw my niece I just forgot it all. And she's so clever. She's got my brother wrapped around her finger-'

'How so?'

I've slowed my pace to match hers, moved my hands to hang at my tailbone while we wander through the leaves. She disperses a few as she walks. Playfully, kicking them over my shoe with a glint in her eye.

'Like that,' she laughs, nodding to the crushed leaves. 'She pulled his hair, scratched his face, threw a fit, refused her dinner, spilled her drink... and he had no idea.'

'He wasn't paying attention?' I ask, confused. She laughs again.

'Oh no, he knew. He just couldn't bring himself to tell her off. Poor Molly was forced to handle it all. He couldn't so much as warn her-' she stops herself. Sighs. 'She's not a bad kid, though.'

'Mischievous you said?'

'Exactly!' she touches my arm briefly, tilting her gaze upwards in enthusiasm so that I am left staring at the patch she had smoothed. 'She's smart, testing the boundaries.'

'You must dote on her,' I murmur.

'Mm. What about you- what did you do?'

It was sweet how gently she considered her representation of a toddler I had no acquaintance with. She speaks so highly of her I suspect she feared the honesty, too. Concerned as to the image she was displaying. I had very little experience which stereotypes to children were ones to be concerned for. I knew they had tantrums. I knew they had the misfortune of whining and crying and puking and just generally having to suffer in their own waste...

But I wasn't averse to them. In that, I might not know much of them but I had no ill-will. I feel myself smile. No, much the opposite in fact. It wouldn't be a factor of my life I would have to stress over. Naturally that made their existence a little more treasurable.

And she was right. You couldn't deny that children gave tense situations an entirely different focus.

She didn't say in so many words what I am already assuming. Perhaps it was a discussion she had once had with this boyfriend. The question of family and kids and a household with a dog and flowers in the yard.

The different road to life. The one I wouldn't drive.

'Where do you go, hmm?' She says, pulling me from the depth of my considerations. I startle a little. Smile. 'In that head of yours?'

'Sorry.'

'Don't be.' she says sincerely.

She doesn't re-ask the question and too ashamed to press her further for details of her break, I listen to her soft hum whistle in tune to the breeze. With an arch of her eyebrow, she kicks up another pile of leaves, having them rustle and crunch against my ankle. I raise an eyebrow to mirror hers. Slowly, I draw back my left foot and kick a few forward.

'See,' she giggles again, her bag swinging over her jacket as she skips up ahead and causes a ruffle of yellow, brown and orange stars to wave from her boots. 'Fun, no?'

'A hoot.' I agree.

The rest of the short walk, I hang back a little, letting her skip up ahead as she dances with the fallen shape of nature.

She called it a 'place' on the phone last night and while I had ideas stored of a kid's party scene with a Mariachi band, my embarrassment grows obvious when we arrive. It's a double-storey building, seemingly closed but rather than head in the front, she sneaks me up a set of steel steps and around a back corner.

Suspicious.

'So, something I didn't tell you-' She spins so fast that her words break into the open chest of my coat, her green eyes looking up at me as if I might bristle. I do the opposite: Force my feet relax. 'One of my professors designed the place-'

'Oh.'

'It's new, I don't know how good it is... But anyway, I got talking with them and the owner and- well, it's their opening night on Saturday-'

I move away from her to look more at the building itself. That's a point... it didn't exactly look open. Though I could smell food. Rich tomato flavourings... I'd forgotten how hungry I was . Back on the prospect of food, my knotted stomach grows eager to soak up the nutrients...

'It's, er,' she flushes, rubs her forehead guiltily. 'It's just us. And the staff, of course. But the meal itself is free. It's just more of-'

I struggle to ascertain where her sudden concern is coming from or why it falls from her lip like we are in a church confessional. Though I listen, I nod eagerly and aim not to be swayed by food.

'I'm sorry. I should've told you. I understand if you don't want to join me, I just didn't want to come alone-'

'Why wouldn't I wish to join you?' I question, making my confusion clear. She pauses the speed of her babbling, sighs, chuckles.

'So, this is okay then? Even if it's... just us?'

I am certain she is in complete confidence of my inability to make jovial conversation with people I did not know. Moreover, she has had to suffer with our somewhat lonesome nights fairly frequently over the last two months. To be alone with her didn't bother me in the slightest... Though I understood why it might bother her.

Forward. Very forward.

And yet I am not a fool. I didn't see the display as something that it wasn't.

'If you are comfortable then I have no reason not to be.'

Her shoulders lower. I hadn't seen that she had tensed them, though now they smooth on the wave of her breath, her braid twisting from the crown of her head with her fresh, soft pieces of fringe covering her forehead.

'Great,' She says, relieved.

'Great,' I agree and I let her lead the way into an unlatched door.

The extent to which to she had made friends with the owners was a skill I would do well to learn. I shake the hand of the Owner, mumble a few awkward Spanish greetings and have them lead the way inside.

It's a good use of space and the colour scheme would be right come the evening. The floor is dark laminate, wooden sections of the same colour building the frame for a bar and the back of booths with plush, red velvet cushioning on the inside of a few walls. The seats are dark too, following the same design as low lights hang to the tables.

While hungry and in desperation to try the food I could smell from the lower floor, I am grateful that they invite the two of us on a quick tour of the restaurant. It serves to provide an inside as to how her talents worked. They discuss things that came foreign to my ear, and a few things that did not, such as the age of the building, the various restoration work, the change to the plumbing and the lighting, dimensions, what got added, what got taken away.

I knew little of it in theory but on providing before and after pictures, I find that Esme's expression becomes unreadable and moving her eyes to various structures of the space, she commends the Owner for his eye.

Though she claims to be pleased, I couldn't help but feel she is reserved about something.

'What do you think?' she asks, hushing the words between us like concealing a secret.

'I think it smells great in here.'

My digestive tract is already starting to sing and I am acutely aware that if I didn't eat soon, there was a risk that I would make noises I'd rather wish she be witness too. That and my lessons started again at three. If I was eating I would need to do so in enough time so as to provide time to change into scrubs and head to my lab.

Still, I am grateful that the few members of staff present are happy to speak in a language I don't know too well and likewise, are not done up with slacks and shirt buttons.

We're lead to a small round table rather intimately placed under a low lamp in the centre of the room. There's an unlit candle on the middle, a few succulents in ceramic dishes but as I pull a chair out, my partner blushes and throws her head in a shake.

'Can we sit at the window instead?' she asks, biting her lip and pointing to the back bench.

She is of course granted the request, though with confusion and before I can think to pull out a chair, she is already moving them before me. She moves mine first, angling it to the bench, aligning hers to so that it is neither directly facing the window, nor directly facing where I am to sit.

Which we would have done at the round table.

'Less formal,' she answers at the question of my face. I try not to think of it, and in concern for Elizabeth's home lessons, offer to take her coat. 'No, no. Sit down. We don't have long.'

I check my watch. We had just under three hours. And I wasn't planning on rushing. The indigestion was bad enough the first time round, I'd learnt my lesson since then.

The window provides a better view than I would've thought. Though looking at the school buildings and facing what is mostly greenery, it is wide enough to provide the right kind of light for lunchtime. Particularly when the rest of the scene is better suited to a dark evening.

We order water for the table but much to my ever-so-slight concern, we don't order. Instead we are to be provided with samples of dishes and mere trepidation is not enough to calm me from the threat of a dish that could make your nose run into your food.

'It's nice,' I say, looking around to the various tables and chairs.

She is fiddling with the plant. I suspect she is eager to know whether it's real or fake but even from here I can see it's real. There is not a falsified sign of wax over the layers of green.

'It is, right?' She sighs a little, pushes her lips together.

She unzips her jacket now, revealing a sharp, white button down with sleeves rolled upwards and the top few buttons open enough to revel the hit of her perfume. We are not that far from each other, though perched at an edge, so the summer scent comes cartwheeling to me like a dream, letting saliva pool at the hollow of my tongue.

'It's not what I imagined at all.'

I try to clear my dry throat with the water. It's so cold all it does is make me cough.

'No?' I wheeze.

'It's a lot posher,' she murmurs, hiding her eyes in the table, feeling her fingertip along the varnished wood. 'Nothing like my professor described.'

'What did they describe?'

'Down to Earth,' she grumbles. 'Open spaces. Authentic.'

'It could still be authentic?' I whisper, now resembling her own caution.

In spite of her reservation, the shock to her expectation is enough to cheer me. Though her frown deepens, fingertips rusting her new bangs, she laughs, displays a slight curt shake of her head.

'With Boiserie panelling?' She asks. 'Wine coffered ceiling?'

She is displeased.

I feel myself grin.

'It's beautiful,' she agrees. 'Really, very beautiful.'

'But French?'

'Exactly.' She sighs again. Now playing with the straw of her drink, she chews the end a little, her hands fiddling on the top of the table. 'Anyway, I was looking into those tickets. You know for Friday and I was thinking-'

Shit. Friday. Of course Friday, I'd forgotten all about it-.

'Er- when you say Friday-' I begin sheepishly.

'For the theatre,' she reminds me. 'It doesn't start till Eight but-'

Shit. Shit. Shit.

'What?' she asks, already witnessing my hesitation.

'Esme, I am so sorry. It completely slipped my mind.' My hand comes quite automatically to my mouth in slight worry for what a mess the words could tumble into. Her eyelashes flicker in my direction and she's suddenly staring at me so brilliantly I am almost too frightened to get the apologies out. 'It's just- I've got to-. Er.'

'You can't go.' She summarizes and while she still smiles, she likewise moves her gaze outside.

'I am so sorry-'

'It's fine, Carlisle.'

'No- I want to go. Really I do. It's just-'

It's just that Edward came first.

While he may not have made the request first, I couldn't take her up on the invitation knowing he required my assistance. Since last night, he'd been getting himself into a further stresses of missed notes and flunked chords.

I couldn't bail on him.

'Don't worry about it,' she murmurs, still looking away. 'It's just a dumb thing. It'd probably be awful anyway-'

'I wish I could,' I promise. 'Really. But something came up and I've... I'm sorry. I just can't make it.'

'Don't apologise.' she says softly. 'I understand. I get it.'

She's frowning.

Rather, she's looking so peculiarly sad and while she's saying the things to soften my abandonment, just looking at her disappointment makes me feel awful.

Thankfully the food comes then. The server lays a number of plates in front of us, arranging them as if we were famed culinary critics and escapes us to enjoy.

Esme leaves to wash her hands first and needing the bathroom from the several water glasses I had been chugging on account of my silence, I leave briefly too. Breaking seals of fancy soaps is a privilege I had not considered until this point though I am grateful for the rather neutral scent of lavender. Both from my hands and her slightly damp ones.

It's as I re-seat myself that I discover a dilemma.

'Ah.'

They'd misplaced my cutlery.

'What's up?' she asks, unfolding a fabric napkin over her crossed legs. She watches me stand and with catch in her throat, moves her palm to my chest in order to pause my movement.

Every time she did that it is as though she's controlling the air around me. She didn't even have to touch me. From just the raise of her hand I could feel the intricacies of her palm as if it lay against my heartbeat. I could feel my lungs crinkle, ribs caving in as if creating a hollow, weightless space within my stomach.

I didn't mean to make her think I was leaving.

'Sweet?'

At the tune of her accent, the over-familiarity of the term, my left leg gives way and I fall quite literally in my seat.

'Hm?'

'Cutlery.' I gush, awkwardly. 'I. Er. I don't have any cutlery.'

If she had been irritated with my unreliability moments ago, this request now soothes the sparks of injustice. Her full bottom lip moves into a pout and then breaks into a side smile, a grin and nodding to the display, she indicates the washlettes.

'It's like an appetizer,' she explains, showing her hands with a wiggle of her fingers.

For an appetizer, I was slightly afraid. I was hungry but the extent of this feast is pushing it.

'I doubt I'll be able to finish this and then some-' I start to say but she laughs even more and swizzles her leg inward.

'No, as in finger food. This is the main meal just... in miniature?' She picks up something from the corner, holds the plate towards me and takes the other. I think it's a quesadilla but I haven't seen them since High school in Chicago and the thought of those quesadillas... well...

There is a reason I am hesitant.

'Like hors d'oeurves?' I murmur, playing into the French confusion.

'An amuse boouche.' She agrees, sounding out the pronunciation so visually that I can see the inside colour of her lip when she pouts. The flushed pink. A clinochore gem.

'Well,' I raise the edible triangle, examine it from all sides and concede to the growling hunger . 'Bon appeitite.'

She laughs, watches as I daintily chew the top with wariness. The moment the tortilla touches my tongue, I relax. Flavour floods into my mouth, salt and meat and cheese and spice... I am starved. Absolutely starved. When I take the next bite, I am not restrictive of the amount.

'Good?' she asks, swallowing a mouthful and covering her lip with her hand.

Who is this woman?

What had I done in my past life to deserve such florid generosity as she provided. I had lived in Oregon for a year. Over really and I had never ventured towards anything so worthy of praise.

Rather infused by the glory of great dishes, I groan, showing my limited ASL when she questions it.

'Really?'

Thoughtless, I now sign an 'x' with my finger.

'It's gorgeous.' I commend. 'It tastes really good-'

She holds up a different plate now, nods to it. 'Try this.'

'What is it?' I ask, taking a parcel and peering at the underside. It looks filled and smells good... My trust in her is starting to reach new excesses.

'Tamales.' She takes one for herself, waits for me to try it and once satisfied at my pleasure, tucks in herself.

Strange texture. I'm not too sure about the outside. The filling however is perfect. Thick and rich and meaty. Like chilli really.

'This place is Gold.' I'm talking more to the food now, addressing the dish. I don't even turn when her fidgeting foot collides with my own. I am making faces with the plates around me. 'Gold.' I repeat.

There are too many options to warrant an empty bench. We tackle several. In fact I discover her favourites quite easily. She likes the creamier dishes. Anything with coriander in, she turns her nose up no matter how slight the taste is and while she seemed hungrier, she waits for me to start a dish before she tucks in herself.

It's difficult to read why this is. I imagine contextually it could do with my lack of experience towards the flavours.

She seems eager to have another's opinion in regard before comparing her own and when she outright dislikes something, which is rare, she avoids damning herself to the judgment.

'You've-' She stops, pulls herself backwards and smiles, looking down to her own food.

'Hm?'

'You've got-' she moves towards me again, hesitates and restrains her hand in her lap.

Rubbing my hands on the napkin, I bring it to my face and wipe where I suspect the offending mark must be on my lip. I raise an eyebrow but her hair shakes.

'No, it's-' she stops herself in a giggle. 'It's in a really unusual place-'

'Huh?'

'May I?' she asks, already moving out of her chair. I doubt she notices me move backwards. I barely notice myself. I'm just cautious of her movement toward me and while... while the contact is regrettable and I move away from it accordingly...

Part of me wants to move forward.

A significant curious tingle at my hands wishes to know what it would be like to feel her hand. Touch her perfume…

Far ignorant of the food now, her thumb comes up to push my chin away from her. She moves slowly, worrisome, her pose still even if her foot is rolling.

I daren't breathe.

'You've got it on your jaw-'

With her napkin, she wipes the edge of my jaw clean, inspecting the work before retreating into her seat.

'Sorry, I couldn't-'

'You have siblings,' I remember and though the heat is trickling down my throat, brimming about my ears and leaving me deaf, I suspect from the gesturing of her arm that she is laughing again.

'I don't even know how I managed-' I look at my hand and find the orange sauce on the edge of a knuckle. I grimace.

'Oh, shit,' she complains, now looking down herself. When she sighs, she does so in such an exaggeration, I almost fear she's mocking me. 'Needless to say, you're not the only one.' She tilts her head down, picking at the perfect blotch of colour on her...

On the inside lapel of her shirt.

She's caught it at the button of her chest, the pure white brilliance of the shirt now a dedication to the display.

'I knew I should never have worn white!' She groans, pulling down the fabric tightly and dropping her chin to examine the offending stain.

With a hand pointing the tip of the napkin, she dabs delicately around her chest before coming to the button and with my attention half distracted in what a mess I must have looked like, I try to understand the issue-

Skin.

Plump, peachy flesh, poised, perfect, round...

The rush of blood propels me up in both senses of the word.

'-to the bathroom,' I gasp, excusing myself in such a speed, I can't tell if she looks up.

Sweet, holy mother of-. My pants constrict, pulling myself so uncomfortably tight, I am fearful for the seams of the zipper.

There aren't enough locks on the door to make me feel secure enough. Now trapped in a silent bathroom, facing the mirror image of a delusional, lanky, pink, sweaty being unable to lubricate my throat-.

In a lunge, I move towards the sink and fill it with cold water, my fingers so eager to move that they collide with the steel. I can't see if there are remnants of the sauce on my face but wrenching my eyes closed, I scoop handfuls of the chilled liquid over my features, soaking the back of my neck with the cooler temperature.

My palms have a pulse of their own. Beating, pumping blood through every corridor, pulling postures so straight they almost curve over. I was in agony. Haunted by the pictures of her perfect crevices, the subtle rise in-.

My hips lunge. Almost as if I had been laying in my open hand, almost as if I'd-. The demand of need is unavoidable. It's making my tongue salivate, my hands fumble, fighting with the sink's marble.

And her perfume. Her perfume's source heated from within the burning pulse of her breastbone, moving the soft skin together.

Like tossed barrels of carbonated soda, the movements from which I had learnt to arrange a hand on myself now fizzed so viciously from within that I barely make it to the cubicle. Slamming another door shut behind me, I have but seconds of freeing myself till I expel vivaciously into my palm.

I wire my teeth tightly together so that the only noise I make at the excretion of my orgasm is a breathless harrowed groan and now overwarm again and pulsing in every vicinity of my body, I rest my head against the cubicle wall and hyperventilate.

I don't realise until far too late that I'm having a panic attack.

At which point the gasping becomes animalistic wheezing, chest now so fiercely bound together that it feels more that I'm gasping more through my spine than my nostrils.

My ego forbids me to count for how long I hide in here. Days. Weeks. Months. Sticky now, tossing my expletives away I guiltily wash again and again, soak my face, let the lavender burn my sins.

I don't know how I brave going out there.

Momentarily I consider climbing out the window and drowning myself in the first puddle I find but I worry that such an act will leave her alone on campus.

Stunted in breath, death not coming soon enough, I meet the final march and force myself out.

'I was starting to worry you'd drowned!' She flickers in confusion when she faces me, long eyelashes blinking. 'In fact- it looks like you have? Are you alright?'

I can't even risk looking at her. I can't bear to have her read my expression and think of me as the pervert I am. I should be arrested. Locked away. Pulverized. Pummeled.

Did she know?

'Indigestion?' she guesses, peering around to try and catch my eyes.

Regret. Regret pours into me when I meet her face and though she smiles, cheeks full, lips smirking-.

I'm not thinking of that.

I'm not thinking.

I'm not thinking. I'm counting. I'm breathing. Breathing.

'Mm hmm,' I mumble, nearly vaulting at the scent of her perfume. She pushes a glass of water towards me and then my own. Her green woodland expression so piercing on my neck it's like her pupils are radiation lasers incinerating my flesh.

Flesh.

I drain both glasses in record speed as she requests another glass from the server.

'It's from all that running yesterday,' she murmurs teasingly. Cardboard is pushed into my hand and looking down I see she's trying to offer me a solution.

Panic, fear and outright stupidity mean I take two without checking the label and swallow them so guilty I half expect to choke on them.

'Are you okay?' she whispers now, voice so velvety smooth that I continue to avoid looking at her.

If I thought myself conversationally inept before, I didn't know what new low I had fallen to. Perhaps I had just lost the ability to speak.

It felt like that.

The waiter comes along then, removes the last few dishes we have failed to finish and though they kindly bag them for us to take home, she pushes them towards me. I'd been doing my best to count in Latin so her disruption does not do well to satisfy my fears.

'You might not feel like it now but it's worth you taking the food home.'

It wasn't the food that was the issue. I am the problem. My incapability is a problem. To think such a violent reaction would come from something so natural. Something not even tied to the female sexual organ. I had seen breasts before. Cleavages.

Never had it led to such a-.

I touch the back of my neck distastefully and throw the beads of sweat from my fingertips.

'Thank you.'

'It's no trouble,' she chuckles. 'Besides, I actually remember to eat whereas you're somewhat lacking in that department.'

She laughs and I want to join her but I am so exhausted, so haunted and so frightened of meeting her eyes in case she happens to be a mind reader-. I take the third glass and drink from it as though showing off my water holding capacity. She tilts her head to my watch.

'We'd better leave,' she murmurs. 'You've got to be back in an hour.'

I check the time too and nod.

Though I don't look at her, and stay well away from coming within breathing space of her perfume, once the plates are cleared she pulls her coat on in such a hurry, I am forced to hold out the arm for her.

Forced. By Elizabeth's teachings. It's not that I wish to impose myself in her space.

Her fumbling makes it necessary. That was something. Even if I couldn't bear to look at her, it was nice to consider that such similar troubles seemed to complicate her day too. Arm holes. An interesting weakness.

Her only one apparently.

'Oh,' she laughs, catching my eye in a glint when she realises I am trying to assist. 'You're too kind.'

At risk of bumbling, I dare not respond. Just smile. Then once her face is turned, let it crease a little.

She makes discussions with the Owner before we leave, chatting away at a speed which grants me the secrecy to drop several notes onto the dish. They hadn't charged us, as promised, but it felt a little immoral to leave without paying some respect.

Particularly after the event in their bathroom.

Shuddering, I put a few more notes on the pile and leave it at that.

'Feeling any better?' she asks once outside in the blissful braying breeze of a November afternoon.

This time, I don't hesitate. I do as she would, tilt my expression to the cool, bitter wind and try to let clear my mind. As least for the rest of our walk together. At home I would be able to barricade myself in and pray upon every Bible in sight.

'Yes,' I lie, trying to force my lungs to open in spite of their refusal.

'That's right,' she chuckles. 'Breathe it in. Hawk it back, belch it out.'

'Excuse me?' I creak an eye open. She's at my side, copying my stance in mockery, pushing out her-urgh. Catching my eye, she smirks.

'Better out than in and all that- what?'

Firstly, I would never.

Secondly... it was now quite obvious to me that she grew up in a household of brothers. She is incredibly, poignantly outspoken in regards to that.

'I can assist if you want?' she teases. 'Press on your stomach and-'

'Diaphragm.' I correct, looking at where she is indicating on her leather torso. I crinkle my eyes closed. 'And er, thanks but no thanks.' I move the bag of food in my hand. 'I don't want to be sick.'

'You won't be.' She catches her tongue in her front teeth, snickers. 'You won't feel great-'

'Esme,' I plead, wincing my eyes shut again. She giggles, waiting till I release an unfortunate smile till she allows her laughter to expand.

I'd never said her name in such a tone before. Such a sound made no difference to her. Perhaps she was used to it. Part of her charm. It only served to exhibit my overstep. I wouldn't wait for her to correct me.

I couldn't make the mistake again.

In spite of this... in spite of my brutality, my inability to look at her, the sweat pouring from my palms with every blissful scent of her perfume, she is still quite talkative on the walk back.

Complimentary to the food, scathing to the authenticity, she talks a little of the design. She even asks about my Thanksgiving though on my reserved replies, doesn't probe further and finds another topic she prefers to talk about.

At one point she talks so speedily, so panicked it's almost as if she suspects I'm not listening and while my gaze is centred on the cement path, she doesn't expect me to respond to her tale with queries.

'Huh?' she murmurs, drawing strands of hair behind her ear, left foot swinging too widely.

'You said you felt bad for your professors- how come?'

'Oh.' She presses her lips together, looks at her shoes as though surprised for the interruption. 'Well... do you know many architect students?'

'No,' I confess, clearing my throat a little.

'That. That's why. You said yourself it's a large specialism. You could branch out into so much-'

'But?' I ask.

'But no one does. So you have these great lecturers trying instill you with all this faith and inspiration and motivation and-' she looks to me, flushes and looks away guiltily.

'What?' I ask, eager to keep her talking just so I could stop the instinct of wondering minds.

I didn't want to obsess on what had happened. I didn't want to fall victim to the analytical crisis that would bother me if she said nothing. I needed her to keep talking.I want to keep her talking, too.

I am curious.

'I sound so cruel,' she murmurs with a frown.

'In what way?'

'Well... all these brilliant people pushing these skills into our open hands and... no one does anything with it. In the last ten years, the number of qualified architects increased to ten percent, which is great, right?'

'Well,' I murmur hesitantly. 'I guess it depends on how you're qualifying these qualifications. Undergraduates or registered trading-'

'Registered.' She answers, staring at me for a mild second. I'd forgotten I wasn't meant to be looking at her and now faced with her...

I'd thought of her as sexy the other day.

Is this what the phrase had done to me?

Turned me into a teenager with an excessive hormone problem?

'Er, what were you saying?' I ask, burying a hand in my hair.

She smiles, touching the edge of her lipstick with a nail point.

'Applicants increased to ten percent as of two-thousand an'five, but five years later, the number of registered architects plummets. To numbers predating that of the eighties!'

This was a hot topic for her. She was enthused by it.

'Of course there's deliberation as to the fault. Some say exams. Some say experience, expectations. Others say the field itself and it's dependence on recommendations. Hearsay-' she adds that last one with a scathing roll of her eyes.

'What do you say?'

'Me?' she asks, confused.

'Mm hmm.'

'I don't understand.' She says, smiling in hesitancy.

'What do you think the problem is?'

There is a slight concern that the question is so direct as to be impertinent. She pulls back at first, assessing me as though I'd asked something in an entirely foreign language.

'You want to know what I think?' she asks, breathily.

Perhaps it was an impertinent question after-all. Nevertheless, I nod, if at least to keep myself distracted on something far more world-orientated than her figure.

And yet...

When I wince again, I am sure she spots it.

I nod and hope that she would grant me an answer. I am curious after all. My understanding of her focus is limited at best. It's rather enjoyable to hear her talk of it. Discuss it with an expert as such.

'Funding,' she says, quietly. She fiddles with her hands a little, pauses as if waiting for me to grow enraged. I gather this is a controversial point within her field but I couldn't see how she was wrong. It was odd to me that she would express hesitation on this response. 'It's always funding.'

'That's a valid point.'

'Did you do art in school?'

When forced. I nod. Blush.

'A little.'

'And that's the issue. Arts funding is being cut consistently. It's considered this luxury and then people are divided into creative or not. If you're creative, you get lumped with paint that dried out years ago. You're not assisted in physics and maths and problem solving because you're an art. And yet-'

She's growing animated, her hands move in front of her in such speed that it is like she is an orchestra on an open stage. I can't help but look now. I'm eager to watch her point play forth.

She catches me watching, bites her lip.

'And yet if you focus in STEM subjects, you lose out the vitality of the arts?'

'Exactly!' she sings. 'It's exactly that. Since I started you know how many students have dropped out of my class?'

I shake my head.

'Twelve,' she curses. 'Twelve in two months. It's miserable.'

Though I could agree it was a misery, I never saw her as a miserable student. She seemed to like her lessons.

'I-I have a solution,' she murmurs. 'I don't want you to think I'm all complaints and attitude-'

Again, it struck me that she seemed stressed over her own display. Almost as if she was frightened of her own words, their meaning, the depth of her response. I chuckle and then realise that this isn't a tease. She actually is worried.

'What's the solution?' I ask.

'Stop shitting on the arts.' She grins a little, tilts her gaze down. 'My solution is unimaginative. It's to void compartmentalizing. Even if you think about languages. The creativity it requires just to repaint meaning-'

My lips press together. Another apt point. A problem that had come quite obvious to my childhood. Transferring understanding from one language to another. Knowing when it was best to approach my father in Latin and when it was best to discuss in English. How to unite the two of them come the Trial…

'What needs to be done to achieve it?' I ask and again she looks at me as though I am speaking something very different to what she is saying. She explains her confusion quickly after.

'You talk as if change is possible?'

'Is it not?' I ask, genuinely unaware.

She smiles. 'It's always possible, whether it's likely...'

'You don't strike me as a pessimist.'

As if to consider my description, I allow myself to look at her again. She is wandering with one foot entirely in front of the other as though walking across a tight rope, her fingers twisting in her hair again.

'I wouldn't like to think I am.'

'I'd back you.' I say, the sounds tumbling out my mouth before I consider them.

'Pardon me?'

'I'd back you,' I repeat, rubbing the back of my hair. 'You know, Miss Platt for future president-'

'You shouldn't mock,' she chides, raising a pleasured eyebrow.

'I'm not.' I state honestly.

Her eyes come to her hands again, clasped together tightly. We're nearing our building now. The halls, I mean and while I had been eager to throw myself from her presence on account of my monstrosity, and while it was still the case that I was afraid to look at her, I wanted to hear her talk.

I wanted to know more about the arts.

I wanted to watch the way her hands and her expressions worked in partnership. Her allegories, her analogies, the tune of her voice and most importantly, the opinions. I wanted to know why it angered her. I wanted to feel the burn of passion in my gut as powerfully as she did. I wanted to empathise.

I did empathise. I do.

But I want more.

I want more... of her.

'I'd better go,' I say, flicking my watch into view. Her chin comes down towards the clock face and I have a regrettable instinct to touch my finger to her pointed chin and tilt her eyes up, face them like demanding a high from a fall. To read her expression like pouring over the words of my favourite novel.

'Thank you for lunch, Carlisle-'

'Thank you for the invite. I apologise for my rudeness-'

'Ah, indigestion's a bitch,' she reassures with a shrug.

My cheeks turn to fire.

'Er. Yes. Yes it is.'

Was it wrong to want to hear her swear more? I want her to curse viscerally, loudly, feel the jump of my shoulders every time her lip curls on the sound. She grins with her teeth, fiddling with her fringe as she heads into her building, a delicate wave leaving me bewildered for the moment.

'Watch it!' A cyclist yells and stumbling away from them, I head bemusedly into my apartment to change.