Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“It was always college kids. I always imagined being a professor,” I say, deciding to give him that distraction. “Though I’m surprised by how much I’ve enjoyed tutoring Kylee. It’s refreshing to share knowledge with someone who’s interested in the actual subject matter, rather than her GPA. All she cares about is how cool the sky is.”
I tilt my head up and look at said coolness. “Which, in turn, helps remind me. When you’re in a big lecture hall, sometimes you forget the wonder of how big the universe is, how tiny we are. And how the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know. The quest for understanding becomes like an addiction.”
I let out a little laugh when I realize I’m borderline babbling. “You were right that first night. I am noisy.”
“Huh. Guess I’m getting used to it,” he says, a little distracted, since as usual, most of his attention’s on his easel.
I sit up straight and put on my best authoritative professor expression. “I’ve decided it’s past time I get to peek at your canvas.”
“Is it, now?”
I nod. “It’s not like I haven’t seen your work. The stuff you sell.”
That gets his attention. He looks over, less than pleased. “When?”
“Relax. I don’t barge into your house the way you do mine. But there are a couple news articles about auctions of your pieces.”
He continues to gaze at me but says nothing.
“You’re quite good.” I set the watering can on the table and pull out one of the iron chairs to take a seat. I’ve brought some of the furniture up from the garden, since while alfresco evenings in the yard have ended, I like the idea of rooftop evenings being a year-round experience.
“Flatter all you want,” he grouses. “But you’re not getting a look at this easel. I told you before,” he says, flipping the piece of charcoal between his fingers. “What I do up here is just for me.”
“Do you prefer it?” I ask. “The charcoal over the paint?”
He apparently decides my noisiness annoys him after all, because instead of responding, he drops the charcoal into the little chipped dish he keeps on the stool and heads across his roof to exit back into his townhome.
I blink. It’s rude, even for him.
And I’m a little surprised at just how disappointed I feel to be alone on the roof. Not so long ago, I was irritated at having my solitude interrupted by Archer’s return from his travels. But somewhere along the line I guess I’ve come to enjoy these strange, late-night sort-of conversations with one of the more confounding humans I’ve ever encountered.
I settle into my chair and try to channel Miranda from a couple of months ago, who relished in the peaceful silence. Before I can find her, Archer’s rooftop door opens again, and he reappears.
I’m surprised when, instead of returning to his usual station behind his easel, he walks past it and steps over the small gap between our two rooftops with a long stride.
It’s a first. The space between our rooftops is less than a foot, but it’s been an important divide of sorts, and we’ve never bridged that gap up until now.
I’m trying to sort out how I feel about this when Archer unceremoniously sets a bottle and two small mason jars on the table. He pulls out the second chair beside mine and pours a splash from the bottle into each jar.
Lifting one of the jars, he raps it against the second, which he then pushes toward me. “Cheers, Randy.”
I lift the jar and take a sniff, recoiling slightly.
“What is this?”
“Michter’s.”
I blink.
“Rye.”
I blink again.
He shakes his head. “Whiskey.”
“I don’t drink whiskey.”
“You do tonight,” he says, settling back in the chair and taking a sip from his own glass.
I take the tiniest of sips, unsurprised to find that it burns a bit.
But I’m a little surprised to find that the second tiny sip is a bit better. And the third… almost pleasant.
“Pace yourself,” he says without looking my way. He’s slouched down in his chair a bit so he can tilt his head back. “These chairs suck.”
“They do,” I agree. “Especially for stargazing. Lillian said I’m welcome to replace anything, but I guess I haven’t really gotten around to it.”
He doesn’t reply, of course, but the silence isn’t unpleasant. Quite the opposite. I’m surprised when he’s the one who breaks it.
“You miss teaching,” Archer says, idly swaying the mason jar in his hand.
“Is there a question in there, or…”
Archer shrugs. “Don’t need to ask. It’s obvious from the way you were going on and on.”
But when he glances over at me, his gaze doesn’t match his exasperated tone. It’s piercing, seeing just a bit too much. I look down quickly at my drink.
“I do miss it,” I admit after a moment.
“But?”
I take a deep breath, startled to realize there is a but. “But I guess I thought I’d miss it more. Or rather… I thought I’d miss the rest of it more. People outside of academia don’t realize that teaching is just a small part of what we do. There’s all this other… crap. Everyone tries so hard to pretend that it’s only about the science, when really at least half your energy goes into keeping tabs on what everyone else is doing, and making sure you position yourself in a certain light…”