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  It takes a bit too much time to understand what’s happening when my alarm rings.

  I find myself on the couch, in the same position I was the night before, when I finally found a decent movie to settle in front of, with a nasty headache and a numb right arm.

  My heart is pounding in my ears, and my brain threatens to flee from my skull.

  On the small table, there’s my phone blasting the ringtone, my socks (that I most likely took off in my sleep), and my glass of Tatratea I poured myself when I got home from my parents’. By the smell, I hadn’t chosen the lighter one. Which can only mean one thing: my capacity to handle alcohol has improved.

  Not that it’s a good thing.

  As I watch the clock, I’m not late, but I need to shower, brush my teeth, change my clothes, and prepare my briefcase with all the papers needed for the start of the new year in about thirty minutes. Doable.

  When I hop in my car, I have approximately five minutes remaining and a twenty-minute car ride. Unlikely doable.

  While I finally arrive, Caroline, the woman at the reception, grins with her perfect white teeth. “Well, Doctor Miller, I see you are right on time.” She’s playing, obviously, but I give no signs of stress.

  “These reunions always start late. And I’ve heard the speech four times already.”

  She shakes her head, amused at my excuse. “Have you been spending extra time in the bathroom for the new professor, Alexej?” She pronounces my name right, which is the main reason why we continued to exchange as regular people do. Caroline had always acted like an attentive friend.

  That news just popped out of nowhere.

  She comes back to her chair, high enough for her to see past the counter. I play with my rings on my fingers. “What are you talking about?”

  “We have a new professor.” Her smile gives me a weird impression. A strange sensation in my stomach.

  “Are they replacing someone?” I ask, suddenly afraid that my own bonus of replacements, securing some more money for the year, and possibly my dream position, have just been rejected.

  “He isn’t. He’s here for a semester.”

  A voice on the microphone calls my name, and we immediately stop talking. “Dr. Miller is asked to room 15-04. Dr Miller, room 15-04.” I grab my briefcase from the counter and throw it over my shoulder, “Nice seeing you, Caroline.”

  “Wait! You have…” She gestures for me to lean forward, and her thumb strokes my cheek in harsh movements. “A bit of toothpaste.”

  “Thanks.” It seems I should have spent less time watching the cut and bump on my nose.

  We give each other a wave before I depart.

  As I get close to the room, I see the door already open, with most of my colleagues inside. Only the School of Arts and Sciences is represented here, but the department already possesses a fair number of professors and doctors. I can name so few of them. Reciprocally.

  While squatting to grab the piece of paper that fell from my hands, the dean’s voice exclaims. “Ah! Doctor Miller!”

  “Yes,” Both me and someone behind me say.

  I’ve never liked that name.

  Didn’t like it at ten, when we arrived in the US, and I don’t like it much more now, twenty-two years later. But apparently, nobody could pronounce my real name properly here. So, my father searched for the closest translation of our lastname and decided to choose the seventh most frequent one in the US. An estimated population of more than one million and one hundred Millers.

  We look at each other. He’s just a little bit smaller than I am. And the first thing that sweeps me like a slap in the face is his scent.

  I’ve always had a particular connection to smells. I could easily recognize what my mother was cooking from my bedroom back in Slovakia, or guess when my father had mowed the lawn. It also comes with a downside, because people’s perfume is frequently a problem, as they like to pulverize so much that they become a walking bottle on their own.

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  His is subtle. He smells like clean clothes and fruity shower gel. His hair is combed, and the path his fingers took to apply the wax is still visible, but it gives him this effortless look everyone seeks. His eyes are dark, specks of gold inside a pool of profound brown, and I don’t know how many seconds we stay like this, facing each other, scrutinizing the little details, but at some point, my superior clears his throat, and the spell is broken. “Doctor Andrew Miller, please, come in.”

  Andrew Miller.

  Another Miller.

  One of the million and hundred Millers.

  Like me.

  He gives me a very nice smile, one that says very pleased to meet you, politely and impartially. Everyone sits down, Andrew Miller close to the dean, to his right, to be precise, and he… snorts? Who is this guy?

  “I would like to introduce you, Doctor Miller. He professed to this establishment a few years ago, before he specialized as a researcher in contemporary art and scientific forms of non-verbal expressions.”

  The others nod with large grins on their faces. Andrew is very calm, his hands crossed on the table, watching each of the teachers with attention. Too much attention. “He accepted, after what some might call harassment on my part, to teach a few classes for the following semester on the subject of synergology.”

  And I’m the one who snorts.

  His eyes automatically fall into mine, but I keep my condescending smile. Synergology isn’t a science. It lacks rigor, multiplies the misdiagnosis, and misleads hurting families into believing whatever these charlatans would invent to pretend they understand medicine as real scientists do.

  I’m grinning, but really, my blood has started to boil. Four years that I have taught in this institution and worked on real matters like autoimmune diseases and cancer, and nobody gave me the chance to show all that I am capable of, but this man has been implored to present his completely stupid and irrelevant non-science? I have to be dreaming. This is a nightmare.

  Please, wake me up.

  “That’s right,” he says, with a honey-coated voice, eyes fixated on my face. He stays silent just a second too long, and everyone around readjusts in their seats. Is he hesitating? Did he finally understand this was a terrible idea and he should just abandon it? Go back to whatever his research is about?

  My father’s words come back like a punch in the stomach. Rude.

  I’m the one who breaks the glance.

  “I’ve been… pondering on the idea a while now, but I ultimately accepted,” he turns toward the dean and rests his hand on his shoulder. “No harassment here, don’t worry about it.”

  They both chuckle, and I really wonder what is happening. I cross my arm over my chest, sigh, not too loud, but he caught on that because he darts his focus on me once more. “In an Art and Science institution like this one, I imagined it was the best place to introduce synergology. Some of you might be skeptical, and I understand.”

  I pretend my rings on my fingers are more interesting than his burning gaze over me. He continues. “I gladly invite these people to join me for the first lectures. They might change their mind.”

  I know I won’t.

  Change my mind or attend his class. But I still nod, finally glance back up, and he still hasn’t looked away. Is there something else on my face? Did a pimple appear from Caroline’s cubicle to this meeting room? Am I a black hole?

  “I’m sure they will,” the dean answers and begins his usual speech.

  Andrew’s attention remains solely on me, and I hate it. Hate that he’s using his so-called specialty to scan every single pore of my being. Hate that the more I meet his gaze, the more information I might be giving away, but I just cannot fail and lose to this man. I won’t allow it.

  He's amused by my skepticism. It’s written all over his face. The specialist of synergology is an open book, how funny is that? I don’t need a PhD and a lab for my research to read the minds of people. It’s either sex, love, money, food, or all of the above. Humans are simple.

  Could this be over yet? It’s been many years since I’ve had a smoke, but these kinds of reunions could make me give up and light one.

  “I hope this year will present great opportunities for you all, and as you all are aware now…”

  “Your door is always open,” everybody responds, some with more energy than the rest. I stay quiet. I’ve lost my appetite for opportunities, and the dean knows it all too well.

  “Also, as we have two Doctor Millers now, we will be adding their first name for better clarity. Is that alright with you, Alexej?” The dean smiles at me.

  He pronounces the J like in the word jeans. Which pisses me off more than I would admit. “Perfect,” I respond, grinding my teeth.

  “Andrew?” he adds, watching his new pretty protégé with glowing eyes. The latter nods, his even more glowing smile stretching his thin lips, draped with a three-day mustache and beard.

  We clap and stand up. Mr. Haynes and Dr. Andrew Miller shake their hands, blabbering about something I can’t make up from where I am, and exchanging like they’ve been around each other for twenty years. Are they from the same family? Has he been favored because of an obscure reason? Did he blackmail the dean?

  “Do you need something, Alexej?” The dean cuts my train of thought.

  My mispronounced name loops inside my head.

  Oh, but I need several things, actually. I need you to stop this forsaken nonsense, pretending that this year is like any other after everything that you and Isabella promised me. I need to swipe that smug smile off this person on your right, because he has no right being here. I need to be out of teaching. I need time for the things I really enjoy in life, and not throw away the time that I have now. I need my father to understand I’ve lost my spark because of people like you, standing between me and my future. And I definitely need to smoke.

  Andrew is meticulously listening, and it’s almost like he’s heard everything. But he can’t. He’s not in my head. Yet, his features display an expression of pity. And I hate him even more for it.

  “No, Mr. Haynes. Good day.”

  As I turn around and leave the room, I swear to myself that I’ll ensure we never see each other again.