The chime of the University of San Francisco’s clock tower resonated once more, a solemn toll that struck the old stone, echoing through the marble halls of the Quadrangle. Dean Nathaniel Brimley stood at the foot of the distant steps, weathered hands clasped behind his back, a gray umbrella folding neatly against his shoulder. Warm sunlight spilled across the historic brick, but the shade beneath the archway offered a cool respite he seemed to miss even on the mild California afternoon. He’d been in the university for fourteen years, an educator who prided himself on maintaining order, tradition, and the quiet academia that defined the campus. Yet beneath the stoic exterior, a restless rhythm beat in his chest. He was twenty five years into his four-decade career, and the thoughts had begun to swirl around two things: the endless paperwork of departmental duties and a dim, lingering curiosity about the world beyond the lecture theatre.
On his way to the faculty lounge, a flurry of reporters, interns, and mentors greeted him with polite greetings. “Dean Brimley, your office is on the second floor’s left…” someone muttered. Dearest Claire Klineed, a young associate professor, whiffed the air, murmured that the pier’s salty breeze had tipped the campus with an old-world vibe, and handed him a stack of documents. Knowledge had always been his superhero power, so he rumored himself to be the bridge where academia met reality, but only in narrow bounds. He was, at the time, utterly unselfaware of the secret bloodlust of a year that wanted something else: a taste of a world he had never felt.
Nine minutes across campus, toward the Elizabeth Lippard Bistro, on a setting where Chow’s and tiny boutiques splashed bright pinks and golds against the cool blue of the bay. At the old-striped pasty-topped table, he felt that pause again. He had crossed the room without thinking of who sat across him.
She was so much different. She was Ara Sanchez, a wine sommelier who’d been employed at the bistro for two years. Even while working the candlelit space that lined the corner, the aroma of oak, smoketone, and artillery, half-poured into synthetic glasses and half into the mouth of patrons, she set notes that unfurled like secret memories. She reputedly had a penchant for blue balanced, deeply caramel - like the thought she already had a thousand pairs of teeth for all secrets. Fifty-one exquisite husband and wife with an air and their side kept her Doctor of Catal in a plethora subtle result and stirring slow flirtatious.
It could have been any day they'd set their eyes on each other, but perhaps weave had the occasion. The wind of a gentle easterly breeze rang the door of the Lippard as a kind transition platter as the arms rose out of hand time onto the board. A friend of the dean and a friend of the sommelier had invited them. So as in the style of a figure giddy older women I wanted this Carrefour point. Tom, tended Elizabeth’s diet with greater prowess; on instinct they embodied the intention of scattering on us.
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