His laugh is musical. Delicate and warming in all the best ways. He is so at ease in this moment that it even includes a giggle. Though that may be the effect of alcohol that simmers through his bloodstream. He is lounged in the armchair that I have pulled around to face mine. His strong legs hunched up so that his socked toes rest against the front of it. From all our tutorials together however, I know he is a terrible fidget so he won't stay that way for long.
"So, what is the plan," I ask him with a smile. I rest my glass of whiskey on the arm of my chair and cross my legs. He gives a boyish shrug. His jumper is far too stretched on him now and one shoulder has slipped down to reveal pale skin beneath. I swallow.
"I must say, I never would have believed that one of my students would be top of the best-seller list for over four weeks. I don't know about you but for me Mr Cornish, this is a dream come true!"
"I only got there because of everything on the news," he reminds me. Oh yes. That dreadful scandal.
"But the reviews, my boy. The reviews! They're raving about you. I'm tempted to stop people on the street and tell them that you were my student."
A hint of a smile is creeping into his lips. I can see the faint line of a dimple even in the flickering light cast by the fireplace.
"Another," I ask him temptingly as I reach for the decanter. He is definitely smiling now.
"You're like something from a novel, Martin. You belong in the eighteenth century, not in the twentieth."
"Twenty first, my dear boy," I correct him as I pour a generous amount of the amber liquid into his glass. "The century is counted with the number above the prefix."
"Yeah," he nods. There is a comfortable silence for a while as we both watch the fire.
"What time do you fit into then," I ask as I swirl my drink a little. "Where ought you to have been born?"
He shrugs, a little embarrassed. Each time he is here I am ask him something that requires philosophical thought and every time he flushes.
"I don't know," he smiles. I don't push him further hoping he'll approach it on his own terms, but he does not.
"Do you still see any of the other students," he asks me suddenly, his head tilted just so.
I shake my head sadly.
"Not as often, no. The occasional card at times but you're my most frequent visitor."
"Oh."
The silence now is slightly less comfortable.
"It's getting late," he says sadly. "Ivo will worry."
I frown to myself as he springs from the chair. Oh to be youthful enough to spring anywhere. I slowly move myself to standing and follow him into the hallway. He is retrieving his coat.
"Aren't you going to call a taxi," I ask.
"I'll walk," he answers brightly. "Have to stop by the petrol station and get milk anyway."
Domesticity doesn't suit him.
"Thanks for having me Martin," he says brightly and moves in to hug me before opening the door and disappearing down the little pathway into the rain and cold.
Oh I wish.