During the Conflict Resolution lecture, there was that familiar silence when everyone pretended to listen. The instructor spoke about compromise as a way to resolve conflict.

"Okay, I'll give you a belly massage, but only after the enema."

I remembered the feeling of Alexander Ivanovich's fingers on my skin. He started with light circular movements. Then he pressed on a point to the left of my navel — it was so pleasant, it helped me relax. The repetitive movements of his fingers played an incredible melody. His palms moved with a gentle vibration. Soft, even circular motions made the tension melt away.

I had closed my eyes then, wanting to feel it more deeply. "Do you have an extra pen?" Lera nudged me.

I flinched, then took a pen from my bag.

"You're so spaced out," Lera remarked.

"Just didn't sleep enough," I said, trying to sound casual.

"I get it. Tomorrow's Saturday. Want to go to the mall? I need jeans."

"Okay," I replied, my thoughts drifting back to the warm palms I could still feel.

During the next class, as we moved to another room, Nikita appeared beside me.

"Oksana," he began, shifting from foot to foot. "Maybe we could go to the movies? Saturday evening. There's a new film."

Lera overheard and spun around sharply.

"She already promised me. We have plans. Jeans, you know, are more important."

Nikita looked dejected, muttered something about "another time," and walked away.

"Always him," Lera snorted. "Never at the right time."

I said nothing.

---

On Saturday morning, we went to the mall. A few clouds drifted across the cold autumn sky. The rowan berries glowed with a crimson sheen.

Lera quickly found her jeans and, satisfied, sat down at a table in the food court.

"Let's get some tea," she suggested.

The cashier said flatly:

"We have a new tea: ginger with juniper. Want to try it?"

I agreed, and a minute later I took a sip and froze.

The ginger burned, the juniper had a light bitterness, but there was something familiar, almost comforting, about the taste. Like that time when Alexander Ivanovich's hands rubbed the warming ointment into my back. I took another sip, trying to memorize the feeling.

Lera drank berry tea, adding three spoonfuls of sugar.

"Sweet is better," she said, sipping. "I don't get how you can drink that bitterness."

"And anyway, Oksana, don't drink too much of that tea." Lera gave my cup a suspicious look. "You know juniper is toxic in large quantities, right? Andrey was telling me about it on Thursday while I was filing his nails."

I looked at my cup.

"Toxic, you say?" I repeated, then took another slow, deliberate sip with immense pleasure.

Lera shook her head.

"Andrey lost it again yesterday," she started complaining. "Can you believe it? I said I wanted to go to the theater on Sunday, and he said he had a soccer game. I told him to choose. He chose soccer."

I listened with half an ear, absorbed in the tart, burning taste of the tea. Another lesson in Andrey-training had ended in complete failure.

---

On Monday morning, it got colder. Amid the incessant noise of the downpour, the wind tore dry yellow leaves from the trees.

I arrived at the university forty minutes before the lecture started. The hallway was still empty. I left my coat in the wardrobe and was about to head to the classroom when two female professors appeared in the doorway. I recognized one immediately. Everyone called her Mademoiselle Hélène. She had taught us French in our first year. The other one, older, with glasses, was the chair of the literature department, I think.

"How was your date with that doctor?" the older one asked.

My throat went dry. I knew immediately who they were talking about. He had a right to a personal life, too. I stepped back toward the bulletin board, turned my back, and pretended to study the schedule.

"Marie, it was a disaster!" Mademoiselle Hélène exclaimed, as if talking about the end of the world. "He didn't even bring flowers. I thought, finally, a normal man, but he…"

She paused to catch her breath.

"I was expecting candles, champagne, a restaurant. But he took me to some café. Claimed it was quiet, cozy, and they knew how to brew tea properly. And that café didn't even have wine! I ask him, 'Alexander Ivanovich, do you like my dress?' And he answers, 'Yes, is it comfortable?' A dress that costs half my salary — comfortable! All that time in front of the mirror, the hairdo, the makeup…"

Mademoiselle Hélène was getting louder.

"I smile and say, 'Alexander Ivanovich, how are you?' And he answers, 'Fine, I have many patients on Monday.' It was the worst date of my life!"

She took another breath.

"I thought, maybe he's just shy. So I ask him, a little playfully, 'Alexander Ivanovich, what do you like?' And he says, 'Tea.' Then he looks at me and suggests, 'Let me order you some noodles with meat.' Can you imagine, noodles with meat, Marie? I say, 'Thank you, I'm not hungry.' And he just looks at me calmly and says, 'Then why is your stomach growling? Do you have stomach problems?' I wanted to sink into the ground!"

I glanced at another group's schedule and barely stopped myself from laughing. The world of French romance had collided with the harsh reality of physiology.

"It was the worst date of my life!" She took another breath, dramatic and heavy.

"I barely managed to say, 'Let's not talk about that. Please, just pour me some tea.'"

The French professor's voice sounded even more disgruntled.

"C'est la loose! Oh, Marie. I said to him, 'You, Alexander Ivanovich, are so calm. You must do yoga?' And he answers, 'No, Japanese jiu-jitsu.' I ask, 'What's that?' He says, 'It's a form of martial arts.' I say, 'How interesting. Who do you fight with?' And he says, 'Myself.' And after that, I completely stopped understanding him."

She paused, then said with a dramatic groan:

"Marie, this is a tragedy."

The older professor, whom she had called Marie, remarked calmly:

"At least it's a story to remember."

"I don't need memories like that," Mademoiselle Hélène said with theatrical notes in her voice. "I would have been better off reading a book at home."

They walked past. I stood by the board, my eyes fixed on the schedule. The letters swam before my eyes. Their voices faded. The hallway seemed to grow brighter.

I slowly walked to the lecture. In the classroom, I googled what jiu-jitsu was:

Respect for the Sensei. The student's duty to the teacher is 'higher than the mountains and deeper than the seas.' The instructor's instructions are not to be disputed.

In the evening, I watched Japanese jiu-jitsu competitions on my screen.

On the screen, an athlete in a black gi pressed his opponent tightly to the mat, his forearm pushing against the opponent's chest, his body covering him like a heavy but living blanket. I watched, barely breathing, and suddenly remembered: I had also lain on my side when he inserted the enema nozzle. His hand rested on my thigh, holding me in place, while the other lay on my stomach, and I felt the whole world shrink to the borders of his palms. There was no pain in that hold — only his presence, and the desire to instantly sink into his warmth.