Page 13 of The English Professor

‘Then you should come rowing with me,’ Dalton offers.

‘Or hiking,’ Gerik suggests.

‘Can you see me getting into one of those tiny little rowing boats,’ Bruno scoffs, and it was true. At six foot five and built like a brick shithouse, the mere thought of Bruno crawling into a single-seater rowboat was laughable. ‘Only you would suggest something so ludicrous,’ Bruno says, nodding towards Dalton.

‘I don’t know, I could see it,’ Anders says. ‘The Vikings were big guys like Bruno, how do you think they got around?’

Iain laughs. ‘Anders, they sailed in fucking longships, not one of those single sculls down by the riverbank.’

‘A baby must learn to crawl before it walks, and walk before it runs,’ Anders says, like he’s some sort of guru. We all laugh. Anders is Danish and loves his words of wisdom.

Dom shakes his head. ‘You know, I should never have gotten you that Zen master quote a day calendar for Christmas.’

‘So, we’re not young lads anymore. Fair enough,’ I interrupt. ‘I had to ice up my knee last week. But if a weekly five-a-side match is the only way we’re all going to get out to the pub, then I don’t mind suffering for the cause. The company is what matters, am I right?’ I say, raising my pint glass.

‘Cheers,’ they cry in unison.

Gerik looks at me, ‘Icing up your knees, man you’re old Jack.’

I flip him the finger.

‘Seriously Jack, you might need to get yourself a less stressful hobby.’

‘I have a good book on gardening,’ Iain pipes in, to a chorus of laughter.

‘You could take up rowing!’ Dalton says enthusiastically.

‘How about hiking,’ Gerik says.

‘Didn’t we just have this conversation? Besides, those are still strenuous activities,’ Bruno says. ‘He needs somethinglessstrenuous.’

I sit there laughing as the guys take the piss out of me and proceed to shout a litany of hobbies: fishing, cycling, pottery, music.

Finally, Gerik speaks up, ‘What about painting?’

My whole body tenses up.

‘There’s an idea. Haven’t you painted before, Jack?’ Dalton asks.

I shrug trying to feign indifference to the idea, but this discussion is starting to hit too close to home.

‘I’ve heard there are classes on campus,’ Anders says.

‘I’ve got enough on my plate as it is. I probably wouldn’t have time to start a painting class,’ I lie.

The sad thing is, none of them have any idea how much this conversation stings. I shrug, a forced, lazy smile pasted to my face. There’s no way I’m doing anything like that.

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WE SETTLE THE TAB ANDhead out of the pub. It’s still warm for October and Dalton and I walk home together as we usually do.

As we cut across the town, something catches my eye. It’s a leaflet affixed to a shop window.

‘What are you looking at?’

‘It’s nothing.’

Dalton has already followed the line of my eye. ‘What’s this?’

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