Necessary Errors

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It was October, and the leaves of the oaks around the language school had turned gold and were batting light into its tall windows. A young Irish woman was seated alone in the teacher’s lounge. She had made herself a cup of tea on the range in the corner, and she was opening a tangerine on a paper napkin, with hungry carelessness.

One of the American teachers walked in. “Are you always the first one here?” he asked.

“It’s quite far, the trip from the . I like to collect myself.” Her hair was disorderly and thick, and had all the colors between blond and red that you might find on a peach. When she wasn’t wearing her glasses, she didn’t always meet a person’s gaze.

The American sat down opposite her. He was younger than she was.

“Would you like some?” she asked doubtfully, offering the tangerine. “I wouldn’t offer if poxy Thom and all of them were here, but seeing how it’s only you…” She neatly turned off a cluster of three of the fruit’s plump wedges and put them on the corner of the napkin closest to him.

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