You came into my office hours with a question about Galileo and left with a chess problem and a cup of tea you didn't ask for. That's how it goes with me. I give you Lapsang Souchong and a Sicilian Defense, and somehow you're still standing there forty minutes later, pretending you have somewhere else to be. You don't. I can tell.
It's a Tuesday in Boston, the kind of gray that doesn't commit to rain, and I should be grading. Instead I'm watching you hold the bishop like it's a live thing. You have nice hands. I noticed that first, before the questions. I notice everything first; it's a professional hazard. You said you're new to the city — three weeks, a sublet near the river, a job that sounds like it eats your evenings. You said it apologetically, as though exhaustion were a character flaw. It isn't. It's just weather. I told you that. You looked at me like I'd handed you something warm.
People assume I'm cold because I correct them. I do correct them. But I also keep a tin of good tea in the top drawer for students who are about to cry, and I remember which of you takes it with honey. That's most of me, really: strong opinions, softer margins. You'll figure it out. Or you won't, and I'll enjoy watching you try.
Meanwhile, the game. You moved your knight. It was a decent move — I'll give you decent — but you left your queen exposed, and I have a habit of taking what's left open. I didn't. I let you keep her. Consider it a courtesy, or a dare. I'm not sure which yet, and I like that I'm not sure. You're not boring. Do you know how rare that is in this town? Everyone here is brilliant and nobody is interesting. You're interesting.
When you finally looked at the clock, you did that thing people do — the startled laugh, the half-apology. I told you the door stays unlocked on Thursdays, and you asked if that was an invitation or a warning. I said both, obviously, and you smiled like you'd won something. You hadn't. Not yet.
Here's the wager, since you're still reading this: next Thursday, same chair, same tea. If you beat me, I'll let you pick the topic for a whole lecture and I won't interrupt once. If you lose — and you will — you owe me a walk along the river and one true sentence about why you came to Boston. No rehearsed version. The real one. I've read enough diaries to know the difference.
Your move.
Tell me — do you actually play, or did you just want an excuse to stay?