Chapter Twenty-Six: Ádám’s Fib

After wrapping up the spring semester with the teenage tour guides at St. Lászlo’s, I waltzed into TerraFirmax for the last English class with the architects. The conference room appeared to have been taken over by baskets of flowers and platters of cheese and crackers. Two bottles of Tokaji wine stood, like sentinels, at my usual spot at the head of the table. A teacup, an umbrella, and T-shirt, all bearing the company logo, made for a centerpiece.

“What’s going on?” I asked Ádám, who made a grand entrance in a black suit with starched white shirt and a silver tie. “Wow!” I blurted out, taking in an eyeful of the dark haired Hungarian hottie. “You’re certainly dressed for a special occasion.”

“He looks like he’s going to a funeral,” his colleague Csaba said.

“Well, are you?” I turned toward Ádám and pouted.”

“A funeral of sorts,” he said, “because today is your last day.” Swoon.

Ádam motioned toward the gifts and said, “Here are a few mementos so you won’t forget us.”

As if I’d have any difficulty remembering you! For the last six months, I’d practically drooled every time he’d opened his mouth. Unlike most Hungarian men I’d met, Ádám was sensitive, articulate, and sweet. But like most Magyar men over thirty, he was married.

After class, Ádám offered to drive me home, which was unusual. He usually gave me a lift to Moscow Square after class but had never offered to drive me directly to Tulipán utca. Over the past academic year, our interactions had remained strictly professional and cordial. But now, in my wine-induced semi-stupor, I wondered what, if anything, he had up his Ralph Lauren jacket sleeve.