Into the Velvet

Fifty-Four Days Until

Mr. Cain began class as he always did — arriving five minutes late with a steaming mug of coffee. It was always the same mug he used, no matter the day or season. White, chipped and faded, with The University of Chicago printed in black.

The class expected his tardiness. Rather graciously, too, for it was his only fault as a teacher. He would also say the same standard line. Every single time. "Sorry I'm late, everyone. One of these days—" he started.

"—I'll be on time," my class finished for him. Laughter carried across the room, making Mr. Cain smile despite himself.

He liked his coffee sweet. Two and a half sugars added with the creamer, methodically stirred clockwise until the granules had fully dissolved.

Last night in that diner, I had finally allowed myself to ask my burning questions. "Can I ask you something?" I began, my arms folded on top of the worn table. I'd watched as he scooped the sugars into his burnt coffee, followed by a serving of cream. He had the long and steady fingers of a surgeon. Trimmed, clean nails. A leather watch on his wrist told me the time — it was eleven past midnight. I had his class tomorrow the next day.

We had been talking for what felt like years.

"Shoot."

"Why the cup of coffee in every class? Why in the middle of the afternoon — and why are you always, always five minutes late?"

He had a laugh that started deep in his belly — highly infectious. Full of good humour. He shook his head ruefully, dimples exposed by the soft light. "You really are observant. Allow me to answer your question with another question. Is my every move so closely scrutinised by you, Louise?"

He said it again. The name I'd chosen for myself. His tongue curling inwards to form the 'L' sound, his lips shaping themselves around the 'O'. Lou-ise.

Mr. Cain had a first name too, obviously. But it was on that night when I discovered the name for myself. Once I knew, it was difficult to go back to not knowing.

"Well, Henry — can I call you Henry?"

He took the first sip of his coffee. "We're at a diner in the middle of nowhere, where time doesn't exist. You could call me anything."

"Alright, Anything. You see— if I can gain a deeper understanding of someone's character by observing what they do, I'm always quick to make a mental note. I enjoy paying attention."

He thought over my words. "Right. So the same military precision you apply to analysing your English texts also extends itself to your observations of actual people." Henry — I could call him that now — leaned forward intently with a twinkle in his eye. "I'll have you know something. Analyzing actual people proves itself trickier than analyzing the characters of a book. Their motives aren't particularly easy to read, or even understand. As dark and dashing as I may seem, I'm afraid I carry more nuance than your typical Byronic hero."

I crossed my arms at this, raising an eyebrow as a challenge. "I hear you loud and clear, Rochester."

"Rochester? Please." His eyes were bright and animated; unguarded. "Why can't I be Byron himself? Let me dream big." I chalked this up to the fact that he was in his element — maybe there was more to it. In my simple-mindedness, I'd failed to count the many empty glasses cleared from the table, when the waitress had brought out his coffee.

I disagreed. He was more of a Valancourt to me; the young idealistic archetype, driven by passion and burdened with sensibility. It felt so inevitable to place him on a pedestal. Requiring no critical thought.