Learning Curve by Harper Bliss

Learning Curve

    “Ja?” Giselle asks.
    “Yes Djeesel.” I sneak a peek at my watch. It’s two minutes to six and I pray she’ll let me off the hook.
    “What did you say?” She pins her sky blue eyes on me. The sky looks a bit icy today though.
    “Sorry. Ghie-sel-le.” I stress every syllable of her name as I pronounce it slowly.  
    In my head, the imaginary bell to signal the end of another gruelling lesson rings. Only, I’m not in school. I’m in private tutoring hell. Every Friday afternoon I leave work early to spend the last three hours of the week learning German. You’d think it would be easy for someone English-speaking, what with the two languages belonging to the same linguistic group, but let me assure you it’s bloody hard. The main problem, I duly confess, is that when it comes to learning, I might be over the hill. Picking up practical skills isn’t so much the issue, but studying exceptions to very rigid grammar rules—and remembering them—is proving quite difficult. The other issue is that I’m not convinced I need it and I find it hard to invest myself in useless activities.
    My company sent me to Berlin five months ago and I’ve been having these weekly sessions with Giselle for the past fifteen weeks. That’s a lot of hours spent gazing into the impossible blue of her eyes. If only I could pick up German by doing that.
    “Watch the news on ZDF,” Giselle says in impeccable English. I’m sure she does it to taunt me. I bet she’s a genius who speaks at least seven languages with no sign of a native accent.  
    “And address people in German this week. Don’t worry about making mistakes.”
    “Sure.” I bury my books in my backpack with no intention of digging them up before next week’s session. Giselle has told me many times that German is not a language you can learn without memorising vocabulary, articles, and the dreaded verb cases, but does she honestly believe I have nothing better to do?
    “Any wild plans this weekend?” She takes off her dark-framed glasses with those long-fingered hands and I can feel my heart skip a beat before it starts thundering in my chest. It doesn’t matter that those hands have pointed out countless mistakes and have, occasionally, slapped the desk in frustration with my apparent German learning disability. If Giselle wasn’t my teacher, she’d be perfect. Apart from her hands, they’re perfect already, regardless of our relationship.
    “Just the usual speaking your fair language to everyone I encounter and maybe a few drinks in between.” I grab my leather jacket from the back of the chair and sling it over my shoulder. I need to get out of here before I lose my cool completely. I can feel it slipping away as I skim her freckled face for a sign of a smile. She shoots me a small one at last. One that says— I know you want to fuck me, but you’ll have to learn German first.
    Granted, I could try harder with the flirting. Maybe ask her out for a drink after class. It is Friday night after all, but what if she says no? It’s already so excruciating to sit across from her every week, her dirty blonde hair caressing her face in all the places I want to touch it. I’m also ninety percent certain she’s straight. She looks like she may have a dark-haired, square-jawed boyfriend, a bit of a bad boy maybe, on a motor bike.
    “Viel Spass,” she says. At least I know it means ‘have fun’. I scour my brain for the German translation of ‘likewise’ but it doesn’t come so I just wink and walk out, but not without conflicting emotions. It happens every Friday at six. The elation linked to the start of the weekend courses through me, elevated by the relief of surviving another three-hour lesson, but then there’s that crushing weight on my soul. A new cycle of seven days minus three hours begins before I see Giselle again.
    I realise it’s fairly immature for a thirty-year-old to have a teacher crush. Believe me, I’ve tried to stop