Cemone took her first sip of a drink she’d expected to taste bizarre. In the last leg of her date with Nolan, she found herself enjoying the young scientist’s company. Even with their collective hiccups, they had a splendid date. The two had taken a walk through campus, and then shared a cab ride to a small café, where Nolan suggested she try this very special drink.
“What is this called again?” Cemone asked. She enjoyed the strange concoction and wanted to commit its name to memory.
“I call it the C.B.G.”
“What does that stand for?”
“It’s a long story. All you need to know is that you’re drinking a French soda with lime, cherry, and Irish cream.”
Cemone grinned, both at the beverage and at him. Throughout their date she’d catalogued all the little quirks and traits that comprised his personality. Nolan was jittery and oafish: when he first arrived at her door, she could see that he had rehearsed his greeting in his head, though he still delivered it timidly. He cast his eyes downward on the few occasions he let himself laugh or smile, he looked intimidated and embarrassed when looking into her eyes, and was almost always self-deprecating. Before, she’d assumed him just a confident man who happened to be a scientist. She now knew that his confidence had been her own misconception. Instead, Nolan was drastic step lower than her perception of him—not so much a glimmering figure, but an interesting person.
When he arrived at her door she could see that he had rehearsed his greeting in his head. It was forced and she could hear the timidity in his voice. He had a hard time walking and talking with Cemone, due to his great stature; whenever he looked down at her to say something, he’d run the risk of tripping over some crack in the pavement. After half a mile, Nolan stumbled into a tree and Cemone was forced to grab his arm to give him stability. He received her gesture happily, and the two held hands all the way to Nolan’s suggested cafe.
“Is this some American invention, or did you discover this yourself?” Cemone flirted, taking another sip.
“This is all me,” Nolan replied. “And it was my understanding that you’re an American too.” Nolan was right: technically, Cemone was an American—she just had a hard time remembering it. She had always defined herself by the sciences she studied, instead of where she studied them; and so, in the course of her education, her origin in America had become an unimportant fact.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Cemone said. “I tend to forget that.”
“You’re quite the patriot,” Nolan joked.
Cemone laughed. “To be fair, I don’t often go back,” she said. “I used to think I would move back once I got my second doctorate, but now….” Cemone trailed off. She wanted to demonstrate how much she didn’t know about her future. She also disliked talking about her latest scholastic honor unless absolutely necessary. So, instead of finishing her sentence, she played with her straw. “I don’t know. Sometimes I just like the idea of staying here. The work is good, and Dr. Cart is amazing and kind. It wouldn’t be, but it feels like, if I left, it would be a betrayal to him. He’s been helping me for so long.”
“How long?”
“Since I was seventeen. He scouted me when I was a kid, and managed to get me enrolled in Oxford. He taught a lot of my classes and let me assist on some of his. He even gave me my degrees during graduation. I can’t imagine where my life would be if I didn’t have him around.”
“You can always just visit America, then,” Nolan said.
“Why?” Cemone replied. “You came all the way over, here didn’t you? Clearly things are a bit greener on my side of the Atlantic.”
“There are so many things we have that the UK doesn’t.”
“I could say the same thing to you about Europe.”
“Give me one thing.”
Cemone smiled. “The Beatles.”
“We have Michael Jackson and Bob Dylan.”
“We have The Rolling Stones and Queen.”
“Elvis was the king,” Nolan retorted, “and Madonna’s the Queen of Pop.”
Cemone erupted in laughter, hoping no one heard the joke as she laughed. “But she’s British now!” she replied. After a moment, she continued: “We use the metric system.”
“So do we,” he said. “We just don’t brag about it.”
“But, Nolan,” she said, “where would I live?”
“You could live with me.”
“Oh, now I see, now I understand,” Cemone mocked in long elongated stretches.
“What?”
“Is this what Nolan Derobe does? You seduce young girls and take them home to have your way with them?” Cemone asked. Nolan grinned while she continued to mock him. “Well, I’ll have you know, I am an English lady, Nolan.” Cemone then picked up her napkin and lightly whipped his nose.
“You’re American!” Nolan laughed, and started throwing ice-chips from his drink.
“With imported principles!” Cemone laughed, meanwhile whipping her napkin at Nolan with comedic fervor as he continued tossing his ice-chips. His fifth chip landed inside her collar, which caused an all-out war on the table. Cemone threw more napkins, while Nolan resorted to flicking his water in her direction. The two laughed and fought like this until a barista asked them to leave.
They continued to laugh as they walked back outside, where Cemone again grabbed Nolan’s arm.
