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“You don’t speak with an accent. Why not?”
“You’re inquisitive.”
“And you’re something like a stalker. I think I’ve earned my questions,” I snark, but with a smile.
“Touché,” he concedes. “An accent was discouraged in my family. They thought it was below them. I wasn’t allowed one inside our home.”
“Eww, that’s harsh. What year are you in here?”
“You jump subjects a lot,” he says, blinking in surprise once more.
“I can’t really get to know you if we only talk about one thing,” I tell him, enjoying that I’m keeping him on his toes.
“Is that what we’re doing? Getting to know each other.”
“I think I’d like to,” I muse. “Besides, I’m sure that’s why you walked up to my table today.”
“You’d be right,” he says, draining the last of whatever is in his cup. Coffee? Or is he a tea drinker? Something tells me he might be, only because he doesn’t look like he’d drink anything but coffee and maybe whiskey and I should expect the unexpected with him. “This is my final year.”
“What are you writing your dissertation on?”
“Fundamentalist religion’s grasp on modern day American politics,” he answers.
“Fuck, for real?”
“Why do you sound so surprised,” he asks.
“Because it’s not all that different from what I’m writing mine on. Though I have another year after this,” I tell him.
“And what’s that?”
“Oh, a whole thing about how purity culture is rape culture and the systems in place that protect it.”
“I think you and I are going to get along well, Ms. Cole,” Damian says. “Are you going to the game tonight?”
“No. I don’t get to that many. I prefer to watch from the comfort of my couch,” I answer. “That way, if I want to yell and curse, it doesn’t offend anyone.”
“By anyone, do you mean the sea of blonde women we were seated in the midst of?”
“You noticed that, huh.” I laugh. “There are a few brunettes, but they do tend to be outnumbered. For the most part, all of the wags are great, though. I think professional athletes have a type. It’s not just the NHL.”
“Can I be honest?” He mimics my pose, leaning his elbows on the table so he can settle his chin into his hands.
“Of course, Damian.”
“I know absolutely nothing about any other sport. Let alone hockey.”
“You were catching on quickly enough. A few more games and you’ll have it down.” Casual conversation continues as I pepper him with more questions. Some, he dodges but most he answers candidly. In return, he asks me a laundry list of his own.
When the time comes for me to walk to my next lecture, I feel like I’ve got a good idea about the man.
“Is it too forward if I ask for your number,” he asks after he’s walked me out the café door. The weather is mild today. A light breeze blows a few of the colorful leaves along the sidewalk.
“No more forward than outright stalking me,” I suggest, stepping on a few and hearing the familiar crunching sound under my feet.
“I’m not going to live that down, am I?”
“Not likely.”
