Seven Minutes
She stood heavily before his likeness in the frigid marble hallway – hair tucked hastily behind studded ears, the tongue of one converse all-star hidden in the space between her deteriorating sole and white ankle sock. Breathing.
Dr. Gertmenian served the Nixon and Ford administrations as a Chief Détente Negotiator in Moscow for the Chairman of the National Security Council, as an emissary to Tehran for the Secretary of Commerce, and as Special Assistant to the Secretary of HUD. His corporate experience includes five years as COO of Ready Pac, a leading food processor, and four years as CEO of the Jockeys’ Guild, a sports union…
She considered his cherub-like smile, wondered how it was he could manage such sincerity for the purpose of a painting, while harboring the same intensity that brought one classmate, a highly regarded professional, to exasperated tears a week prior.
… an honorary citizen of China, and a Distinguished Professor of Pacific Rim Negotiations at two universities in Shandong Province. Each year, by special invitation from the Chinese government, he shepherds a group of graduate students, alumni, and friends on a springtime study tour of China and Tibet…
He was brilliant. Simply. And without question. One of the best she’d ever had. Four weeks in and she was hooked, despite her prior disinterest in economics. But he terrified her. And had she succeeded last night in devising a convincing narrative illustrating her sudden and unexpected death, she’d have spread the fallacy like wild fire in order to avoid their 10:45 pm meeting, for which she now waited.
“Dr. G will drag your ass from one end of the hallway to the other and back again. Repeatedly. But when he’s done, you’ll thank him for doing it.” – former student, during orientation
Breathing. God. Even his bio is intimidating. She checked her watch.
10:37 pm
Fucking finals, she groused, fucking oral piece of shit stufjghnu!@*&%$! Closed one eye, cocked her head defiantly, and brought her hand up close to her face – pointer and thumb finger strategically coming together where his head would have been, had the painting not been one dimensional.
“What are you doing?” he laughed, catching her off guard.
Roberto. The Italian rocket-scientist who, for some unknown reason, had singled her out for a group project earlier in the year.
“Oh,” she sighed, “you know… just… squishing his head a little….”
He smiled; crossed his arms over his chest. “You. You’re crazy, you know?” His thick accent puckish and rugged.
She considered him a moment. Shrugged. “I know,” she frowned, “but wouldn’t it just be so much better this way?”
He regarded the painting. Raised his eyebrows in question.
“If you could just… you know, squish ‘em a little… the things that scare the shit out of you?”
He turned his attention to her increasingly anxious face.
“Just enough to even it out a little…”
They stood in silent agreement as the minutes ticked by.
10:44 pm
“If you want,” he offered, “I’ll keep squishing while you’re in there…”
And she laughed – a whole body laugh that echoed down the hall and traveled down the elevators and into the lamplighted streets below.
And he smiled. Loosened the knot of his tie a little. Scratched the back of his head.
“You’ll be just fine,” he said. Simply. And without question.
And that was it. Sometimes that’s all it takes.