Oliver smiled and leaned over. "Maybe we could discuss it over lunch?" he whispered.
CHAPTER 2 Frozen peas & Ice cream cones
Crowley woke up to the blaring sound of "Bohemian Rhapsody" from his smartphone's alarm. He stretched languidly, a smile lingering on his lips as he tried to hold onto the fleeting image of soft, loving blue eyes that had visited him in his dreams. The song continued to play, and he allowed it to serenade him for a moment before finally shutting it off.
In his usual fashion, he found himself half-dressed, still wearing his signature tight black jeans. He dressed lazily, his mind briefly wandering to the idea of being able to dress himself with just a snap of his fingers. Making the bed felt tedious, so he skipped it altogether. Pulling on a grey shirt, a vest, and a jacket, he took a moment to fix his hair in the mirror. The memory of those azure eyes began to fade, and his smile faltered, replaced by his customary sneer. His reflection mocked him, the soft caring blue eyes vanishing as his own yellow, menacing ones stared back at him. With a practiced motion, he slipped on his sunglasses. He had long accepted that he was different from everyone else, and those sunglasses were his mask. Now, he was Professor Anthony J. Crowley.
Exiting his penthouse, he made a mental note to water the plants. He had yelled at them the night before, an inexplicable compulsion, and he had moved one of them to another room, to gift it to his elderly neighbour later. He had made a show of it for the rest of the plants, though he couldn't quite explain why. Some part of him believed that the spectacle would make his plants grow better. Of course, last night he was kind of drunk.
Before getting into his cherished Bentley, he performed a thorough inspection, as if it were a part of himself that needed perfecting in the mirror. "Missed me?" he muttered lovingly before settling into the driver's seat. Anthony was, by some stroke of luck, an excellent driver. Traffic lights always seemed to turn green for him, and despite his penchant for driving at maddening speeds, he had never received a single traffic ticket. He loved the sensation of driving, the connection he felt to his car, as though it were an extension of his own body. That sense of belonging washed over him as he revved the engine.
Arriving just in the nick of time at the campus cafeteria, he grabbed his signature drink and hurried to his class, a trusted and well-worn physics book tucked under his arm.
"Well, I see some new faces today," he remarked as he entered the lecture hall, always slightly surprised by the number of students who enrolled in his course. "I fully hope you newcomers have a grasp of complex numbers, Fourier analysis, and probability theory?"
There were a few hesitant nods among the students. If they had ventured into his class unprepared, it was not his problem. "Hmm, in our last session, we discussed some linear algebraic concepts crucial for understanding quantum algorithms. Today, our focus will be on measurement—transforming quantum information into classical information."
Turning to the blackboard, he wrote a sigma symbol on the far left. "Ready?" The room filled with the sound of pens scratching against paper as the students diligently took notes.
Crowley's lecture unfolded, his chalk moving deftly across the giant blackboard, illustrating the complexities of probability in quantum mechanics. He preferred using the chalk; it made him feel as though he was crafting the universe with his own hands, imparting the knowledge necessary for his students to comprehend.
When the blackboard was covered in equations, he turned back to face the classroom. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he scanned the room, his eyes searching in the dimly lit room for those telltale signs of comprehension in his students' expressions. A few pairs of eyes seemed to grasp the material, and he couldn't help but nod to himself in satisfaction.
However, as he opened the floor to questions, there was nothing but silence. He furrowed his brow, perplexed. "Any questions?" he inquired again, his voice laced with a hint of frustration. "There should be questions." He took a sip of his coffee, a concoction of six shots of espresso in a big cup.
"Come on! Surely there's a question!" Still, no response. He turned back to the blackboard, erasing his work, ready to tackle unitary transformations and gates.
"Professor Crowley!"
The sudden interruption made him smile, and he slowly turned to face the source. "Yes?"
A blonde, blue-eyed student beamed from the front row, her cheeks flushed as all eyes in the room fell upon her. "What happens if we need to perform measurements on a basis… different from the computational basis?"
Crowley couldn't help but beam back at her. "Oh, she's good." He stated looking to his right as if expecting someone to be standing beside him, and the realization that he was alone struck him in the chest.
Turning back to the blackboard, grateful for the cover of his sunglasses, Crowley pondered why he was so affected by a fleeting thought. Maybe he was drinking too much? Taking hold of himself he continued, "I was going to delve into details of how to do this latter discussing observables and expectation values. But…" He turned around, pointing a finger at the blonde, who somehow sit even taller, "You haven't annoyed me yet, so we will discuss it today."
As he delved into the appropriate transformation on the qubit register before measurement his mind eased from the sensation of loss that had settled over him, finding solace in the world of quantum mechanics.
The allure of Professor Crowley's 'Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics' course remained a puzzle to most students who couldn't even remember why or when they'd enrolled in it in the first place. The course was notorious for its difficulty, and the list of failed students was longer than anyone cared to admit. Yet, there was something undeniably magnetic about Professor Crowley himself. It wasn't solely the way he taught; it was the enigmatic aura that enveloped him, like a cloak of mystery that drew people in.
To many, he was more than just a physics professor r. His swagger and magnetic appeal, the way he strolled through the university corridors with a certain confident grace, and the manner in which his lectures took away the layer of danger that surrounded him and replaced it by sheer awe for the universe left an indelible mark on those who crossed his path.
Officially, he held a doctorate, but he adamantly insisted on being addressed as "Professor" in a low, hissing tone that sent shivers down the spines of anyone who dared to address him differently. Within the student body, a fierce competition brewed among those genuinely enrolled in his subject, each striving to attain the qualifications necessary for the privilege of being tutored by Professor Crowley.
Dressed like a Korean gothic superstar, his deep red hair—clearly not a natural shade—the vintage Bentley he drove, and the ever-present dark glasses added to his mystique.
He had a cult following among the students, some of whom weren't even enrolled in Professor Crowley's subject. Among them, a variable number of art students attended his lectures solely to sketch him, captivated by the enigmatic aura he exuded. They affectionately nicknamed him 'the walking temptation,' unable to resist the urge to capture his essence on paper.
The rumors about Professor Crowley's personal life were as varied as they were imaginative. Some believed he was a rock star incognito, seeking refuge from the chaotic world of fame. A Russian spy physicist working undercover. Others whispered that he was an eccentric billionaire who had chosen academia as a pastime.
Some particularly curious students had attempted to follow him home, hoping to uncover more about this enigmatic man. To their astonishment, he maneuvered his vintage Bentley like a professional racer, deftly navigating through traffic, making it nearly impossible for anyone to tail him, even on a high-speed motorcycle. The old car seemed to possess a supernatural ability to elude pursuit, adding another layer of intrigue to the man behind the wheel.
In every sense of the word, Professor Anthony J. Crowley remained an enigma. It was an open secret among the university staff that more than one member harbored a secret crush on him. After all, the absence of a ring on his finger fueled the dreams of many, leaving them to wonder if perhaps they had a chance to break through the enigma and into the heart of the charismatic professor.
At the end of the class, while he erased the blackboard, Crowley couldn't escape the feeling of being adrift in a world that didn't quite fit. He had a fondness for his subject, but it often felt like a costume he wore, a role he played when he should be somewhere else entirely.
The soft touch of a hand on his shoulder jolted him from his thoughts, and Crowley responded with a startled noise. "Ngk!"
A senior research associate, whose name didn't register on Crowley's interest scale, stood before him, wearing an apologetic expression. "Professor Crowley, I'm terribly sorry to bother you. I've run into a problem with one of my calculations and would greatly appreciate your insights."
Crowley sighed, his gaze drifting to the mix of students lingering in the room, likely waiting for their own chance to ask questions. With a sense of duty, he obliged, his manner polite and accommodating. He was, after all, dammed to bring knowledge to humanity.
Perching on the edge of a table, he used a bent knee to support the notebook the man had brought with him. As he reviewed the intricate calculations, a pang of loneliness washed over him, anticipating the moment when the next professor would take over. It was a time when he'd return to the penthouse, a place that often felt more like a transitory hotel room than a true home.
His focus returned to the calculations, his raised eyebrow and disapproving look directed at the senior research associate. "This is nonsense," Crowley stated, pointing at the papers and waiting for the man to introduce himself.
"Oliver."
Crowley's annoyance surfaced with a hiss. "Hmm, this is rubbish, Oliver. Nonsense that belongs far outside your department. Why drag me into this?" he snapped, irritated.
Oddly, Oliver smiled and leaned over. "Maybe we could discuss it over lunch?" he whispered.
Crowley leaned back, his lips curling into a sly grin. "Well, Oliver," he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "lunch is a rather precious time for me. You see, it's when I usually practice my remarkable skill of 'not interacting with people I have no interest in.'" He punctuated his statement with a dramatic flourish of his hand, as if presenting a grand performance.
Oliver's smile faltered for a moment, but he pressed on, undeterred. "Come on, Professor Crowley, I promise I'll make it worth your while." He leaned even closer, his hand daringly inching towards Crowley's arm.
Crowley's eyes narrowed at the approaching hand, and his voice took on an edge of irritation. "Ah, but you see, Oliver," he remarked with a raised eyebrow, "the problem is, my interests tend to lie in areas of the universe far beyond your comprehension. I'm afraid discussing this," he gestured dismissively at the papers, "would be akin to explaining quantum physics to a gnat."
Oliver's face fell, and he withdrew his hand as if it had been burned. He blinked at Crowley, clearly taken aback by the professor's condescension. For a moment, silence hung between them.
"We could discuss something else?" The man asked tentatively.
Crowley's irritation simmered just beneath the surface. He had little patience for those who persisted beyond the boundaries of polite rejection. Lowering his dark glasses slightly, he allowed Oliver to glimpse his eyes. In response, Oliver recoiled, knocking over a chair in the process. His face had paled, and there was a hint of fear in his eyes.
"Um, never mind, Professor," Oliver stammered, his voice shaky. "I—I have to go. Thanks for your time." With that, he hastily gathered his scattered papers and fled the class, leaving behind a slightly bemused Crowley.
Anthony watched him go, a mixture of amusement and exasperation dancing in his eyes. He let out a resigned sigh, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of countless similar encounters. Adjusting his sunglasses, he hopped off the table, his movements graceful and fluid. After collecting his battered book, he left the classroom with a firm intention to enjoy a solitary afternoon in his favourite spot at Saint James' Park.
As Crowley strolled away from the classroom and through the corridors of the university, he couldn't shake the sense of detachment that weighed heavily on his mind. He liked teaching, there was no denying that, but he couldn't escape the nagging feeling that he was supposed to be doing something different. The thought tugged at the edges of his consciousness like a persistent itch.
As he descended into his own thoughts, his steps took him through the bustling hallways, past students chattering about assignments and upcoming exams. He had always been an outsider, even in this academic world he had chosen to inhabit. His sharp wit, unconventional teaching methods, and undeniable charisma had earned him a place of respect among his peers and fear among his students. Yet, for all the attention and recognition, he felt like an island unto himself.
Exiting the building, Crowley found his way to his Bentley, and drove it absentmindedly, as Queen's 'Radio gaga' blasted. In less time than was humanly possible, the Bentley was parked and Crowley was in favourite spot in Saint James' Park, seeking solace in the familiar surroundings. He settled onto a weathered wooden bench, his gaze fixated on the serene pond where ducks glided gracefully. With a sense of ritual, he left an empty space beside him, by his right, a silent invitation for an imaginary companion who could understand the persistent solitude that gnawed at his soul.
Yet, time and time again, that space remained vacant, a poignant reminder of his isolation.
As the day waned and shadows lengthened, Crowley couldn't help but dwell on the emptiness that permeated his life. He knew the routine well—the solitary dinners at his kitchen table, the consumption of pre-made salad from the fridge, the indulgence in a full bottle of expensive wine, perhaps followed by another. Soulful music played on his stereo, casting a melancholic atmosphere that matched his mood. Eventually, as exhaustion overtook him, Anthony would surrender to his bed, his body yielding to the weariness of the day.
In those quiet moments before sleep claimed him, he clung to a fleeting hope, a hope that perhaps one day the emptiness would be filled. In his dreams, he found solace in the warm embrace of a pair of kind blue eyes that smiled at him with love and understanding.
With a resigned grunt, Crowley cheeked his watch, five minutes left until tea time. He decided to call it a day. Rising from the bench, he cast a final glance at the tranquil pond, where the ducks continued their graceful glide. As he left the park, he made a mental note to bring frozen peas for the ducks on the morrow, a small act of kindness in a world that often felt cold and indifferent.
Mr. Azira Fell, a man of routines and peculiarities, found himself seated on the far right of his favourite bench in Saint James' Park, relishing an ice cream cone with an air of contentment, just a little past tea time. His gaze, gentle and contemplative, rested upon the serene pond where ducks gracefully glided through the water. It was a scene that offered him a rare moment of tranquillity, a brief respite from the constant chaos of the world.
Looking to his left, he half-expected someone to join him. Lately, Azira had developed a penchant for frequenting the park, drawn to its unique charm, yet unsure why. His eyes, ever observant, scanned the passing pedestrians, as though he were searching for someone he couldn't quite define. It was an odd sensation, this persistent feeling that he was meant to encounter a significant presence in this very park, though he couldn't pinpoint who or why.
But as the day unfolded, Azira's thoughts meandered towards the solitary morning he spent in his cherished bookshop. He had meticulously ensured that two sought-after books were opportunely misplaced while a customers was looking for them. And he had been extremely rude by his standards and said to a lady that he was too busy to help her find one of his rare and prized magician manuals. If only he had someone to share these stories with, he thought. He would tell with a hint of amusement how he had denied a pair of eager buyers the privilege of perusing one of his rare bibles. They would had laugh together with the details of the typos in the bible. But solitude was his only companion.
With a wistful sigh, he finished his ice cream, disposing of the paper napkin in a nearby bin. He decided it was time to head back to the bookshop but not before grabbing a slice of angel cake on the way home. He rose from the bench, casting one last glance at the tranquil pond, its waters reflecting the peacefulness he so rarely found elsewhere. With measured steps, he left the park and headed for the bus stop
In Soho, Mr. Fell was known for keeping his bookstore intact without selling a single item. Speculations and rumours had swirled during decades, whispers of a mysterious man in dark glasses and a black suit who had visited him on occasion.
Some claimed that they were lovers, as the enigmatic visitor often departed the bookstore late at night. Others suggested he might be connected to the Mafia, citing the late hours as an opportunity for money laundering.
Despite the diverse conjectures, one thing was clear: approximately a year ago, a strikingly attractive, albeit naked, man had crossed Whickber Street and knocked on Mr Fell's door. He had stayed for a few days, but the details of what had transpired thereafter remained a mystery. The only certainty was that the man in black had never returned, and the other man had eventually left.
The ensuing debate revolved around whether it was a romantic or business breakup, with no consensus reached. However, the absence of the man in black had marked a discernible change in Mr Fell's demeanor and lifestyle. He had become more reclusive, avoiding interactions with his neighbours more than ever before.
Yet, it wasn't merely the change in his habits that concerned the residents of Soho. They noticed something deeper—a loss of spark in his eyes, a void where there was once laughter. Mr Fell's smiles had grown scarce, replaced by a palpable absence of joy. The neighbourhood began to talk, recognizing the familiar pangs of a lost love, no one dared to ask about his friend in black.
Mr. Fell's peaceful afternoon was rudely interrupted, not by a curious customer, but by the insistent ringing of his phone. He had been engrossed in Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" when Mr. Brown's call had shattered his reverie. Azira had been tugging with apprehension at the hem of his vest the whole conversation.
Politely but firmly, Mr. Fell had attempted to decline the formal invitation to the Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Street Traders Association's monthly meeting, held at Nina's coffee shop that very evening. Mr. Brown, the association's president and owner of Brown's World of Carpets, had proven relentless in his efforts to secure Azira's attendance. He felt a sense of guilt at not carry out his neighbourhood duties. Besides, both the coffee shop owner, Nina, and the record shop owner, Maggie, had been insisting in seen him.
Reluctantly, Mr. Fell had agreed to attend the meeting, fearing that refusing would only prolong his neighbours' persistence. As he rose from the plush chair that sat sideways in front of his desk, he glanced at the empty sofa. The piece of furniture always made him feel lost. He had bought it a long time ago for someone to sleep there occasionally. He was sure of his intent, of specifically choosing the piece because it was comfortable to lie on, and warm. But he was confused about why.
Azira Fell wasn't one to take naps, having a perfectly good bed upstairs for such occasions.
He sighed sadly at the couch and decided to check his reflection in the customer bathroom mirror, an area that had never seen any actual customers. Satisfied with his appearance, he locked the bookshop and crossed the street.
Upon arriving, he exchanged warm greetings with Nina and Maggie. The couple had always held a fondness for him, but as he watched them interact, Azira couldn't help but wish he had someone to share his life with. It was a soft, wistful feeling.
He was grateful that the meeting took place in the coffee shop rather than Mr. Brown's carpet store, with its overpowering scent of humidity. The discussion centered on Christmas lights, a topic that seemed to resurface endlessly. Mr. Fell's thoughts drifted as he observed the affectionate dynamics between Maggie and Nina, the tender way Nina grounded Maggie by taking her hand, and the blissful manner in which Maggie looked at Nina when discussing decorations. Mr. Fell couldn't help but become captivated by their relationship. They complemented each other.
Lost in his thoughts, Azira found himself daydreaming about a Jane Austen novel come to life. He envisioned delicate canapés, a live orchestra enticing them to dance, and a grand ball. He could almost feel the cool, silky touch of a hand in his own and a comforting presence dancing by his side.
As the meeting concluded, Mr. Brown snapped him out of his reverie. With an earnest tone, he offered to walk Mr. Fell back home, catching Azira off guard. A soft chuckle escaped him, mixed with a touch of disbelief.
"Oh, my dear Mr. Brown," Azira began with a gentle, teasing tone, "there's really no need for such a fuss. You see, my home is just across the street." He pointed in the direction of the bookshop, where the familiar storefront could be seen from where they stood.
However, to Mr. Fell's astonishment, Mr. Brown persisted with the offer smiling genuinely. Despite the mere few feet that separated them from the bookshop's entrance, Mr. Brown seemed insistent on accompanying him. This unexpected persistence left Azira momentarily befuddled, his expressive brows furrowing in a touch of confusion.
"Mr. Brown, I truly appreciate your kind offer," Azira replied politely, attempting to dissuade him with gentle words. "But it's quite unnecessary. I assure you, I can manage this short distance perfectly well on my own."
"Every time I would look into your shop, you'd be closed!" Mr. Brown protested with an earnest tone as his eyes linger on Ariza. "I've been wanting to have a proper chat with you for ages, and this seems like the perfect opportunity to get to know your store and have a few drinks."
Mr. Fell blinked, his surprise evident in the widening of his eyes. The proposition had caught him off guard, and he momentarily struggled to find the right words to respond. His mind raced as he weighed the situation.
The courteous side of Mr. Fell wanted to maintain politeness and not outright decline the offer. However, the abruptness of the request left him slightly wary, and his instincts urged caution. Mr. Fell was typically averse to unanticipated changes in his routines, especially when they involved interactions with new acquaintances.
After a moment's pause, Azira managed a polite smile, attempting to balance his reservations with civility. "Well, that's very kind of you, Mr. Brown," he began, "but I must admit I had planned on a quiet evening with my books. Perhaps another time? I do appreciate your company, though."
Mr. Brown seemed content with the response looking him with a certain warmth. "Fine, I'll take you at your word then."
As Azira made his way back to the bookshop, he couldn't help but reflect on the unexpected encounter with Mr. Brown. The man's persistence had certainly caught him off guard. It had been a long time since anyone had shown such interest in his company.
A small part of Azira couldn't help but be curious about Mr. Brown. Perhaps there was more to the man than met the eye. They were both shopkeepers in the same neighbourhood, and a bit of camaraderie among local business owners wouldn't hurt.
As he settled into the bookshop once more, Azira couldn't help but wonder if he had made the right choice by declining Mr. Brown's offer. The prospect of a quiet evening with his books was inviting, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter might be the beginning of something unexpected in his otherwise predictable life.
As he picked up a random book from his desk, Azira's thoughts returned to the empty sofa. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Brown could be a friend who would fill the empty space there. The though made his hair stand on end. Azira ascended the stairs to his private quarters, took a short shower, donned his blue-striped pyjamas, and settled in for an evening of reading. Byron's poetry soon filled his thoughts, and as he gradually drifted off to sleep, he felt the golden eyes watching over him once again, providing a sense of comfort and belonging he had longed for, and he could finally rest.