September 19th, 2023

“Professor.”

“Yeah, Bezzina?”

“Somnum is from genus Solanum, not Datura.”

Professor Benjamin Artom leaned forward at his lectern, spying the proud, bespectacled face a few rows back.

“My mistake,” he said, his outstretched index finger curling into a loose fist.

“I can show you in the USDA database—”

“I’ll take your word for it. As usual.”

A few quiet snickers arose from the occupants of the lecture hall. A pursed lip from the student.

“As for my word,” he continued with a sigh, quickly flipping through the end of the slideshow, “it’s ten past nine, and the rest of the lecture is examples. If any of you have questions about them or about our little trip next week, please feel free to ask.”

The room instantly burbled into chatter, zippers, and chairs scooching as students prepared to leave. A few of them came to the front of the room to speak with the professor, but his eyes locked onto one student gathering her things—the one who’d corrected him in that vaguely nasal tone of hers. For the fifth time this semester.

In the second week of school.

Miss Sofia Bezzina, doctorate pending, had her sizable keister in his lecture hall out of neglect, it seemed. Someone so close to graduation, let alone for a doctorate, rarely took his course, but somehow she’d managed to slip through the cracks and avoid his graduate seminar & survey on botanical field research.

No problem, of course—though with her little nota benes and shirt-stretching curves, Professor Artom found his thoughts as of late drifting away from his work and towards her. The fervor of his distraction came as a shock to him. The professor was unattached and had been for years; students, even postgrads, seldom caught his eye. His interest in such a relationship had waned considerably as the years passed him by, the urge fading as his research took precedence.

A practical man with far more experience in the field than the lab, Professor Artom often wore outdoors apparel even in the classroom. He was on the taller end, an erstwhile athlete who had, in his nascent middle age, accumulated some bulk and begun to develop a sort of fatherly build. Thick brows framed his dark, hooded eyes. He wore the same gold aviator frames he’d worn since 1998, framed by saltpepper sideburns and dark, wavy hair that had begun to recede.

Not much to look at, he figured, but Sofia was. With a deep bronze complexion and tight black curls wired with the odd silvery strand, he found it difficult to peg her age or ethnic background—although the East Coast drawl she gave to “water” and “coffee” gave away that she, like himself, was raised not far from their campus in coastal Connecticut. Her eyes were big and brown, almond in shape, framed by full, arched brows, an aquiline nose, and a plum pout. She was notably short, enough so that he wondered whether she had to ask for help reaching shelves at the grocery store—or better yet, climbed them herself.

Her physicality wasn’t all that’d yanked his attention. Aside from those peeping corrections, she was rather reserved in his class. But during their first day icebreaker, she’d told the class she’d worked in the private sector and grew to loathe it so much she felt she had no choice but to pivot to academia—proving that clearly, the only thing she hated more than her work must’ve been herself.

As a lifelong academic, he couldn’t have agreed more.

Sofia arose, slinging her bag across her body before stopping. For some reason, she was getting the distinct sense that the professor had been staring at her.

She frowned. Well, of course he was. Leave it to a man to be wounded by this sort of thing, being corrected in front of a class of students by a woman. Maybe it was needling at him, fostering some sort of simmering resentment that would culminate in passive-aggressive attempts to undermine her in front of her peers—or worse, lower her grade.

Then again, now that she thought about it, he hadn’t really been rude, had he? Tongue-in-cheek, sure. Curt, at worst. But still, it bothered her. She’d put off the course for a reason, even hoped to somehow get out of it. Really, an entire semester of mandated hiking sounded bad enough, let alone with an eccentric man she’d heard could come off as curmudgeonly.

Perhaps she was being unfair. Overthinking. Professor Artom held a respectable reputation as a researcher and educator, regarded as passionate and knowledgeable with rigorous standards for both self and student.

Eh. So she’d heard. Whether she agreed remained to be seen.

She looked toward the front of the room and rolled her eyes. Apparently, he also drew dedicated students with brown little noses clamoring to talk to him after class. Through the half-dozen or so chatting him up, itching to get advice, help, or a laugh, Sofia could’ve sworn she heard something that sounded like her surname.

“Bezzina,” Professor Artom called out. “Yeah, you.” His finger beckoned.

Oh. That was why he’d been staring at her. She meandered to the lectern and waited as he spoke to another student, her mind whirring. Surely it was to do with those corrections. Surely he was already sick of her. Well, then she was already sick of him. Part of her panged with the urge to apologize, but she knew that was ridiculous, she hadn’t done anything wrong; why should she apologize to a full-blown professor for his mistakes, just to soothe whatever ego he had? She was a grown woman, for God’s sake, she—

“Ground control to Major Tom,” he said, waving his hand in front of her.

“Oh,” she startled, sheepish. “Uh, yeah, I didn’t mean to undermine you or anything, it’s just that, having studied that species extensively, I—”

“It’s fine, correct away. Long as you’re right, of course,” he said, gathering his lesson materials.

Sofia only blinked. Before she could respond, he was interrupted by another lollygagging student.

And then another, and another. She hung about, fidgeting with the strap on her bag until students began to filter out. Then she stared at her professor in silence—his attention was no longer hogged, but surely he was anxious to leave. Was it that important?

“Did you..?” Sofia asked over her shoulder, body turned towards the door.

“I do, yes. Why don’t we walk and talk?” He grabbed his wool zip sweater and leather bag and started towards the door, brushing past her.

“Where?” she called, tailing him.

“You know,” he said, “the parking lot, assuming the class bookworm actually wants to get out of here. You drove here, didn’t you?”

Sofia furrowed her brow and gave her head a shake as he walked past her. Class bookworm. What the hell kind of epithet was that? It was lame, it was juvenile, it was…weird.

“I’m not parked in the faculty lot,” she said.

“Me neither, actually. I like a workout.”

Professor Artom headed out into the hall at his typical brisk pace with Sofia tailing him, though he noticed she kept more than a few feet of distance. He consciously slowed his roll, realizing the size difference of their strides may have been impeding her ability to comfortably keep up.

Still, she retained the distance. In the middle of the hallway, he slowed down even more. Then to a pace absurd. Suddenly he stopped short and turned around.

So had she, still a healthy distance away. He eyed the sizable gap between them and raised his brows.

“Social distancing?”

“It’s almost flu season.”

He squinted. She was visibly stiff. Hoping he hadn’t put her off, he gave her a small smile, relaxed his body language, and took a step towards her.

“Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

Sofia felt heat shoot down her spine as she let out a small laugh.

“Yeah. Sorry,” she said, taking a few steps forward. “To be completely honest, I…I thought I bothered you.”

“With?”

She hesitated. “Correcting you in front of the class.”

He exhaled in disbelief.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” she said. He tutted. This notion surprised him.

“Come on, give me some credit here. If you actually want to bother me in one of my lectures, come in wearing a Nets jersey.”

She chuckled, now feeling a little silly.

As they continued conversing, now in easy tandem, neither could help but observe the finer details of the other’s person. The professor noticed his student seemed even shorter up close than she did from afar, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder—though she wasted not a single inch of her meager height, her posture straight, head held high. Being the first time he heard her say more than a few sentences, he found she spoke with a serious, measured cadence he found refreshing. Her sizable bust, in a tawny sweater, and her curved thighs, in black slacks, moved pleasingly with each step she took. She wore a striking sapphire pendant around her neck.

Professor Artom was not the only one busy observing. Sofia noticed that he sounded different up close, the clear oratorical boom he projected in his lectures now attenuated to a deeper, gravelly register. His face was adorned in the evening’s stubble, darkest on his upper lip and slightly cleft chin. His jaw and nose shared an offbeat angularity.

Her eyes trailed downward to his attire. The professor’s brown leather boots looked like he’d walked in them from coast to coast. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his worn hunter green field shirt and undone a couple of its buttons, a dusting of chest hair peeking out from behind the white sliver of his undershirt. As he gripped his things, sinews stood out against the ample hair of his forearms, crowned by an old digital watch and notably ringless fingers—not that Sofia was looking for one or anything, the very thought was mortifying, just that a woman her age found herself noticing such things by natural impulse.

“—know you’re researching it, so I wanted to ask you if you were interested,” Professor Artom said.

Sofia snapped out of her nosy scrutiny.

“Sorry, what?”

“The department’s graduate research trip. It’s in the spring, we secure grants for about a dozen or so students. Bunch of people in our class are going. It’s always a blast.”

Her mind burst with questions—why her, what kind of trip, what opportunities would it proffer—only one of which eked out.

“Is it mandatory?”

He scoffed.

“You don’t have to, no. But this is a real opportunity here. Get your hands dirty. What’re you, a lab rat?”

“Kind of,” she said flatly.

“This year our path of interest happens to be along the Appalachians. I think, and I’m sure you can figure out why, it would be a very good idea if you came along.”

Sofia knew well. Solanum somnum, the star of her dissertation, was a species of plant near and dear to her heart, endemic only to the mountainous regions of the southeast. It wallowed in obscurity, rare and under-researched, so obscure it was referred to solely by scientific name, having never earned a folksy colloquialism from laypeople. But it was a magnificent plant, with indigo petals surrounding orange pistils and potent medicinal effects hidden within, its mysterious nectar purported to make the imbiber drowsy and pliant.

As one interested in altered states of mind as well as complementary color combinations, Sofia had long felt herself powerfully drawn to it.

Alas, progress on her work had stalled. Last semester, her previous thesis advisor had retired—a happy occasion for the emeritus, of course, but it’d left Sofia in the lurch. At the risk of her dissertation languishing, a frightfully easy thing at this stage, she was eager to regain footing by any means.

“Are you familiar with my area of interest?” she asked, suspecting the answer.

“I’ve caught wind of it,” he replied. “And I happen to think it deserves more attention. From myself included, considering today’s gaffe. I’d be happy to vouch for your slot on the trip if you wanted to use some of that research towards your thesis. Funding would be a cinch.”

Though still wary and unsure of his intentions, her interest was now cautiously piqued.

“Thank you, Professor. I’d appreciate that.”

“Certainly.”

“For how overlooked it’s been, its extract could be game-changing,” Sofia said, feeling her eagerness blooming given the opportunity. “You know, the CIA actually synthesized an isomer of one of its alkaloids in 1962 and tried to use it as a kind of truth serum.”

“And?”

“Basically a coin flip. But I think they went about it wrong.”

“Perhaps. There are lots of species like that, they just sort of become forgotten among others. Ones that are more potent, more plentiful. More profitable.”

“Yeah, but Somnum is special,” she said, casting her gaze aside to the drab terrazzo floors and painted bricks of the building’s dated lobby. “I think psychoactivity in plants is one of the most interesting ways they relate to us.”

“I agree.”

There was a spell of silence as they walked before he spoke again.

“Which is why I’d—well, since Dr. Baxter retired, I’d be…open to advising you.”

“Really?” Sofia said, stopping in her tracks. Now he was serious.

Professor Artom nodded. “Assuming you haven’t already sunk your teeth into someone else.”

“It is a bit late in the game,” Sofia replied. “And I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You wouldn’t, I only have three candidates under me right now. At any rate, you don’t have to answer on the spot.”

She sort of did, though, if she wanted to finish on schedule. Sofia mulled it over, eager to get her work back in motion. The man’s decision did seem awfully quick and out of the blue. If he found her work so interesting, why get involved just now? Pity? She’d hardly so much as shared a lab with him, let alone collaborated on a degree-staking publication. Things could easily end in disaster if they worked poorly together.

Then again, she didn’t loathe conversing with him. His interest really did seem genuine. And above all, so was her demand.

She gave him another once-over. He gave her a small, tight-lipped smile.

“You’re on.” Sofia extended her hand; Professor Artom took it. They shook firmly.

The two made their way to the building’s front doors and leaned against the crash bars, instantly whipped by the night’s brisk wind.

“I hate this time of year,” he said, putting on his jacket.

“Why?” Sofia asked.

“Still warm during the day, but then you get this kind of night that reminds you how cold it’s about to get. Kicks you in the ass. Mine, at least.”

“I happen to think it’s the best weather of the year.”

“Oh, it’s not all bad on its own,” he said with a little sigh. “Just somber. The Sunday evening of the year.”

She hummed in understanding. As they continued their discussion, it wasn’t long before they reached Professor Artom’s car. Their conversation had become so involved that he was surprised to see it so soon.

“Taking up valuable front real estate in the student lot. What happened to liking a workout?”

Apparently, so was she. They shared a look.

“I get here early, I get the primo parking,” he said.

“Kind of defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”

“Well, the faculty lot is right in front of our building. This one’s half a mile away. It’s just enough of an extra walk that I feel good about myself for doing it, not so much that it annoys me.”

“Pretty anal,” she said with a smirk. His inquisitive eyes met hers; instantly, a hot rush of shame flooded her. “Oh my God—I’m so sorry. I didn’t really mean that. Bad joke.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“You’re not wrong,” he said, glad she seemed to have warmed up to him, at least a tiny bit. “I can be.”

“Still, it’s inappropriate,” she insisted. He shook his head.

“I don’t dock points for being astute, if a little rude about it. If I did, you’d already have a C.”

She smiled a bit at this, relieved that he didn’t seem offended. But despite her brain tugging the reins, urging her to leave, her mouth, encouraged, kept running.

“What year’s this Forrester, ’06?” she said, turning to his car.

“’08, but good eye. Been with me since about then.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a lesbian.”

He blinked in surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, you know the le—the whole stereotype that, um. Lesbians drive Subarus.”

“I have never heard that.”

Her ears burned. Pressure built in her chest.

“Not—not that I would know, personally, just that I’ve heard about it, and, I, I have friends who drive them.” She took a deep breath. “In the ’90s, Subaru advertised extensively to lesbians to get a foothold in the US market, which was actually a complete success, hence the stereotype…”

She trailed off, searching for any kind of reaction, even a bad one, but he remained inscrutable, eyes only widened slightly behind his glasses.

“Interesting. I had no idea.”

“Now you know. Guess I’ll see you next week,” Sofia said quickly, eager to leave after irrevocably tanking their fledgling working relationship.

“You, too,” Professor Artom said, trying not to laugh. “Take care, now.”

They parted, the professor’s hand frozen on the door’s handle as he watched her retreat to a car he now realized wasn’t in immediate sight, even in a largely deserted parking lot. At about a dozen paces away, something about seeing her diminutive figure alone, disappearing into the vaguely unsettling vastness, gave him a pang of guilt.

“I could walk you,” he blurted out.

Sofia stopped and turned around.

“Thanks, that’s alright,” she called back. “I can get there myself.”

“You sure?”

Sofia gauged his expression from afar. It seemed different. No smirk, not even a smile, just concern, his hair ruffled by the chilly night breeze.

“I can land a punch, you know,” she said, her voice braver than she felt.

“I’m sure. I mean, you don’t have to, of course,” he added quickly, realizing how off-putting the proposition may have seemed. “I just don’t think deserted parking lots at night are the best places for women who are alone. Or anyone, frankly. But if you do feel better alone, totally fine.”

Sofia stared at him, the toe of her black leather boot grinding mindlessly into the asphalt.

“Sure.”