Free Dating da Vinci by Malena Lott Page B

over him, and that's the way it should be. My role as his teacher and landlord and friend was to help him find himself in America and that meant making friends outside of my four walls. I told him not to judge the frat boys so quickly, to give things a chance—something I couldn't believe was coming out of my mouth.
    I also had my dissertation to attend to, so when I dropped da Vinci off on campus, where he stood out like a beacon in the throng of students, I made my way through the college crowd to the library, where I would dive back in to my work. It wasn't until I cracked open the notebook that I hadn't touched since the week before Joel died, that the enormity of the work hit. The Language of Love. I scanned my notes—more than forty hours of research and thought had already been put into it. Should I scrap the whole thing and ask my professor for a new topic? But what? And my notes were really good. I had stopped working on it, in truth, because I had lost connection to the material, too. But now I could begin to appreciate the topic of love again, as someone might appreciate fine art, detached, but drawn to the subject. I would no longer see love through the blurred eyes of grief, but try to be objective. Besides, I wanted to finish what I'd started, a way to prove to myself that love does go on after your husband dies and especially that a dissertation on the language of love could survive even death. I did still have dreams, the biggest dream to be a professor with a doctorate.
    I grabbed the laptop from my attaché case and clicked it on, the hum causing a few stares from all directions. I slunk into my seat and began typing, the material beginning to pull me in.
The Language of Love
    —By Ramona Griffen
     
    Where does love begin, and where does it end? Anthropologists who have studied love claim that for millions of years the ever-changing world has not changed the primal instinct of love, mating, and sexuality. Though technology and evolution have morphed the way in which we live, the language of love is the one constant in the universe, transcending time and cultures. And researchers say it all begins with one look.
    The eyes have it.
    Across cultures and even species, lovers begin their courtship with a flirting sequence highlighted by the copulatory gaze. As the potential mates stare at each other for two to three seconds, the pupils dilate, indicating a strong interest, and then look away. This powerful gaze is followed by an anxious diversion, fidgeting, or moving away, or it is reciprocated with another universal friendly exchange: the smile.
     
    My cell phone buzzed, causing more angry warning glares, quite the opposite of the copulatory gaze, and I reached into my overstuffed bag to retrieve it. I whispered hello as I beelined for the entrance.
    “You've got to help me.”
    Rachel.
    “Don't tell me. You gained a pound in San Francisco and need me to stand by you to make you look slimmer.”
    “Very funny, though not a bad idea. Zoe is at Cortland's having a play date with his daughter, but my lame-brained assistant double-booked me, and I can't get over there. Can you be a doll and go pick her up for me? Mom's at a church thing and won't leave.”
    “So you're dating the doctor, huh?”
    “He's fabulous. I've been wanting you to meet him, anyway.”
    “That serious already?”
    “Can you do it or not?”
    “I'm working on my … okay, fine. What's his address?”
     

     
    I would give my sister the benefit of the doubt and believe she liked Cortland for Cortland and not because of his estate, a 3,500-square-foot, two-story house in a historic neighborhood where all the movers and shakers of Austin lived. Every mover and shaker, that is, except my enviro-friendly Anh who preferred her 1,200-square-foot modern abode near her corporate office.
    I stood on the porch wondering if I'd ever seen such a huge front door and felt like a munchkin in the Land of Oz. Even the doorbell's sound was larger