“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”
“As a scholar of Oxford and lifelong student of human psychology, I can predict with statistically meaningful certainty that it’s going to involve drugs, alcohol, flagrant recklessness, and/or some combination thereof.”
“Sounds to me like you’re using a whole lot of fancy-ass Oxford words just to state the obvious.”
“The obvious, being…?”
“You, Dr. Sutherland, are boring as fuck. Which is kind of a weird thing to say about a high-level fancy-pants demonscholar, but?—”
“It’s an offensive thing to say, and it’s wholly untrue. I’m quite fascinating, for your information.”
The witch laughs long and heartily. “Oh my god, you are socringe. I mean, it works for you. You’ve got the whole nerdy professor, smartest-demon-in-the-room thing going on, but still. Has anyone ever told you you need to loosen up and enjoy life a little more?”
I remove my spectacles. Retrieve my handkerchief. Polish the lenses to their utmost clarity. “By the most technical definition, Miss Bonnivarde, I’m not alive. Therefore, I do not have a life to enjoy. Furthermore, your entire premise is built upon the false assumption that I don’t already enjoy my existence, for what it is, which undermines your argument and leads to its inevitable intellectual collapse. If you’d like to discuss this issue further, I suggest you develop a different thesis and work harder to defend it with actual evidence rather than a collection of presumptuous?—”
“Um, professor?”
“What?” I snap, replacing my spectacles.
“You’re doing it again.” She smiles, lighting up the whole damn room, brighter even than her wildflower bouquet, and I forgot why I was so bloody irritated in the first place.
I rake a hand through my hair and shrug. “So I am.”
“That settles it. My idea stands. We...” She gestures back and forth between us, that deadly smile gleaming. “…are goingout.”
I open my mouth to stop this train before it leaves the tracks and crashes into the hillside, but apparently she’s already built her new thesis, because here she goes.
“Do you know what my Tarot card was today?” she asks. “Three of Cups.”
“Ha!” I point an accusatory finger. “Your card was the Six of Wands, you incorrigible brat.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but myvibeis the Three of Cups. It’s basically the party card. Celebrating good times with friends, dancing, enjoying our mutualexistences, alive or dead or immortal or some and/or all of the above. God! Why are you so stubborn and… and… un-convincable?”
“Don’t lay the blame on me, Miss Bonnivarde. Perhaps your arguments are unconvincing.”
“You want better reasons? Fine.” She begins counting down on her fingers. “One, it’s Friday night. Two, we’ve been working our assess off for months?—”
“Weeks, more accurately, and?—”
“Andthree…” She grins and wriggles her eyebrows, her voice a lilting sing-song. “I made an amazing discovery.”
“Well? Don’t keep me hanging like your unformed imp. What is it?”
She wriggles the brows again. “There’s… abar.”
“What?”
“A bar. A pub. Whatever you call it, it’s the only game in town. It’s called Kettles and it’s a total dive and the jukebox stopped updating in the seventies. The only people who go there are cranky old men whose idea of a good time is getting blitzed and complaining about their prostates. Helena told me about it—she’s a regular.”
“Oh! Sounds like a rightjollyaffair, why didn’t we think of it sooner?No.”
“Shut up. We’re going.” She grabs her cardigan from the table, then cocks her head and glares at me like I’m a wayward pup refusing to heed its master’s call.
I try, one last time, to save us both. “Must I elucidate all the myriad reasons this is a terrible idea?”
“No one likes a premature elucidater, Professor.”
I glare.
