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People give you rooms.
The table is round, which I appreciate because it means I'm not technically sitting beside Grimm. I'm diagonally beside him.
Totally different.
Except his knee has brushed mine beneath the table three times.
Not that I'm counting.
I'm absolutely counting.
The food is divine. The wine is even better. But what surprises me most is the conversation.
It isn't forced.
At all.
There are no awkward silences.
No endless questions about what I do for a living followed by a blank stare when I say Alchemy.
No man explaining my own profession to me.
No discussion of mortality tables.
Nobody licks my chin—which is a total bonus.
It's delightful.
Wulfy and Grimm have apparently known each other for years, although every time I try to figure out exactly how many, the subject somehow changes.
Interesting.
Dora tells a story about one of her classes.
I tell Grimm about a sophomore who accidentally transmuted his desk into cheese last week.
“It was Gouda,” I explain.
Grimm looks solemn.
“An important distinction.”
“Thank you. That's what I said.”
Dora snorts.
“You absolutely did not.”
“I was thinking it.”
“You were screaming because three students started eating it.”
“They didn't know where that desk had been!”
Grimm laughs.
Actually laughs.
