Next Friday after class, while I stuff my books deep into my bag with a small sigh of both reluctance and relief, Giselle suddenly puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Care for a drink?” she asks and I am dumbfounded.
“Sure,” I say quickly, before she can change her mind and withdraw the invitation. “Where’s your watering hole of choice around here?”
“I have a bottle of wine open upstairs. If you don’t mind…”
I have to stop my chin from dropping down. Maybe there is a god, I think. Or maybe some deity is playing a real mean trick on me. I follow Giselle upstairs. She lives and teaches in a gigantic pre-war building with no lift, just endless staircases and the sound of footsteps clattering on polished wood. Her apartment is on the third floor and is mainly beige with touches of bright blue and
