Joshua Corin - While Galileo Preys

He stored it in the fridge in the faculty lounge. He made sure to stick on a Post-it with his name on it, and hoped that would be enough to dissuade thieves (although he knew in academia no property—especially intellectual—was ever sacred). Fortunately, the corsage remained undisturbed, and by 5:30 p.m. he was carrying it (and a valise heavy with student papers) to his Saab.

It was a long walk. Rafe was out of breath by the time he reached his car. The arctic weather didn’t help; he could feel his ears and bare hands ache with each blast of wind. How peculiar, he thought, that both extreme heat and extreme cold turned bare skin red. He surmised it had something to do with blood. But Rafe Stuart was an associate professor in cultural sociology. He dissected demographics and memes. Anatomy was two quads away, in an oblong, curvaceous building shaped roughly (and somewhat appropriately) like the starship Enterprise.

Rafe tossed his valise in the trunk but very, very gently placed the corsage on the passenger seat. He was a little nervous. Big romantic evenings were not his forte. He much preferred a quiet night at home where he wasn’t under pressure to be Casanova. He loved his wife dearly, desperately, but loathed the typical dinner-and-a-movie rituals that society demanded, especially on days like this. Romance, he always had believed, should be a private affair. But today was Valentine’s Day, and so a corsage (for charm) and Il Forno (for pasta by candlelight). All for Esme. Anything for Esme.

Stuck in traffic on the way home, Rafe adjusted his rearview mirror to verify his necktie’s knot. He’d changed into a suit before leaving campus but hadn’t felt confident about his knot. Sure enough, it canted to the left. As soon as he exited the expressway, as soon as he reached his first red light, he tried to fix it. Loosen—straighten—tighten. Nope, try again. Drive another mile. Next red light. Loosen—straighten—tighten. Close, but still a bit askew, no? Drive another half-mile. He’d reached downtown Oyster Bay. Sophie’s school was to his left. He braked at a red light by the school and gave the knot one last go. Loosen—straighten—tighten. Some of his colleagues in social sciences wore ties year round. How could they breathe?

He angled his Saab into his subdivision. While questions like why one’s skin turned red were well beyond his field of knowledge, the matters of appearances and social perception were very much in his reach and grasp. Although he rarely wore a tie to work, he always wore a long-sleeved, iron-pressed, button-down shirt, even in the summer. Neutral colors, nothing flashy or flamboyant. Respect had to be earned, and man was the most superficial of God’s beasts. When they first met, Esme would have been happy attending a cocktail party in a T-shirt and jeans. He’d shown her the error of her ways.

Butterflies zipped around inside him. Did what was left of his black hair look adequately flat? Were his eyeglasses clear of specks? He shuffled out of his Saab and headed to the front door. He adjusted his tie knot one last time and rang the doorbell to his own house. Their teenage sitter greeted him with a mouthful of braces.

“Hello, Mr. Stuart. You look very nice tonight.”

“Thank you, Chelsea,” he replied. He didn’t want to come in. That wasn’t what he’d planned. Esme would meet him at the door. It would be like a prom date. That’s what he’d planned. That’s what would have been romantic. He was sure of it. But instead here was their brace-faced babysitter—

“Daddy!”

Sophie rushed from her homework to the doorway and slapped her arms around her father’s belly (well, as much of it as she could circumnavigate) in a snug embrace.

“Hi, sweetness.” He kissed her scalp. She gleamed up at him with blue eyes. For a moment, he forgot about his plans, his tie, Valentine’s Day, brace-faced Chelsea, the corsage he’d left in the car, the papers he needed to grade, the chill of the wind, the tilt of the earth’s axis, everything. Rafe’s little girl could induce amnesia, yes, she could. But ah, only temporarily. “Where’s Mommy?”

On cue, Mommy strolled down the stairs. She wore a form-fitting evening dress, red for the occasion. It brought out the freckles on her nose. For the second time in two minutes, Rafe’s mind went ecstatically blank.

Esme, responding to the awed expression on his face, shyly tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear. Even after eight years, he still found her beautiful. She took his hand, they bid good-night to Sophie and her sitter, and walked out into the night.

They arrived late at the restaurant, but after a minimum of fuss the cheery mâitre d’led them to their table. Il Forno rested on a cliff and overlooked the dark blue Long Island Sound. Esme and Rafe took their seats by the window and stared out through the glass at the undulating waves.

Her right wrist sported the green carnation. She’d almost sat on it when she’d opened the car door, back in their driveway, but a last-minute warning from Rafe averted disaster. Rafe hurried to her side of the car and placed the corsage on his wife’s wrist.

Esme grinned. Was anyone more adorable than her husband? She kissed him full on the lips and whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”

Their tuxedoed waiter introduced himself—but needn’t have, as he was one of Rafe’s Meme Seminar students.

“Great to see you, Professor!” Nate said. “I didn’t know you came here!”

Rafe maintained his friendly smile. Had he known any of his students would be here, no, he wouldn’t have come. If romance couldn’t be a private affair, it at least could and should be shielded from his college girls and boys. While students were often cavalier in class about their personal lives, an instructor’s personal life was sacrosanct.

Once Tuxedo Nate took their drink orders and left, Rafe leaned in to his wife and casually inquired if she’d prefer to go somewhere else. But Esme laughed it off. “Because of our waiter? I think it’s funny. Why—is he failing your class? Are you worried he’s going to poison your food?”

Rafe winced. This was not the evening he had planned. But at least Esme had loved the corsage. And hopefully the food would be good. He gave the rest of the restaurant a cursory scan. No other students, either waiting on table or on dates with their significant others. Good. Il Forno was a little out of their price range, anyway.

Nate arrived with their merlot. He poured each their glass and left them the bottle in its decanter.

“Are we ready to order?” he asked.

They were. They did. He left.

“So,” Rafe inquired, savoring his wine, “what did you do today?”

“Not much. Did some laundry. Finished that crappy novel I had to read.”

“Sounds like a peaceful day.”

“Oh, and Tom Piper called.”

Rafe gently steadied his wineglass back on the table. “To wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day?”

Esme sighed. “Rafe…”

His azure gaze fixated on the waves in the moonlight. They followed the dark water as it lapped against the shore, then back into the void.

“He just wanted to talk to me, you know, about what’s been going on down in Atlanta and Amarillo. Get my take on it.”

“Did he get it? Your take, that is.”

His eyes shifted from the ocean to his wife. Sometimes she could make him forget about the world, true. But sometimes she could make every memory caged in his brain explode at once into searing clarity…

“I didn’t call him back,” she replied, and clasped his thick hands in hers. “My responsibilities are here now. Aren’t they?”

Romance should be a private affair? Fuck that. Rafe reached over and in the presence of the entire restaurant (including Tuxedo Nate) kissed his wife full on the mouth.