Page 42 of Proof By Contradiction
He looks up then. Briefly. Too quickly away.
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s different?’
The spoon moves again. Half an inch. Back.
‘The difference is not that I see students. I’m supposed to see students. In office hours. In tutorials. In scheduled academic contexts.’
‘This was scheduled.’
‘Yes.’
‘Academic.’
His mouth tightens.
‘Yes.’
‘Then what?’
He looks at the cup again, as if the answer might be printed somewhere in the foam.
‘The difference is that this has become harder to justify as ordinary academic contact.’
There it is. Not desire. Not confession. Worse. Accuracy.
‘Because of me?’
‘Because of the structure,’ he says, too quickly. Then, after half a second, with the honesty costing him something: ‘And because of me.’
The café noise goes thin around us. Cups. Milk steam. Someone laughing at the counter like people still live in normal weather.
‘There is also the age difference.’
He stops. Picks up the spoon, puts it down. Picks it up again, rotates it ninety degrees, and puts it back. The spoon has become the most manipulated object in Greater Manchester.
‘You’re eighteen. I’m thirty-one. That isn’t incidental.’
‘Thirteen years. I can do maths.’
That focus flicks upward. Trying not to be amused and failing. The mouth twitches, suppressed fast. His professionalism strangles it.
‘This isn’t a joke, Mr Carrick.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Then don’t make it easier for me to pretend it is.’
That lands.
Not sharp. Worse. Gentle.
I look at him. Really look. The straight back, the careful hands, the shirt buttoned too high for a Saturday morning in acafé that smells of burnt milk and wet coats. A man trying to build a fence out of words while sitting on the wrong side of it.
‘So what is this?’ I ask.
His eyes come to mine then.
