The Professor's Weekend

Stories

The Professor's Weekend

Original short story · AI-assisted writing and editorial revision · 18+

This is a work of fiction. Every character involved in the romance is an unrelated fictional adult over the age of twenty-five.

Chapter One: The Confirmation Call

At 3:40 on Saturday afternoon, Shen Wanning stopped the defense timer at seven minutes and twelve seconds. The desk phone rang. The display read Hengwei, front desk.

"Professor Shen," Xiao Tang kept her voice very low, "Chef Zhou closed at three-thirty. He already took the soup home. He asked me to check whether you're still coming tonight as planned. Director Chen's party of twelve wants to move their private banquet to tonight. The two-thousand deposit is in the drawer. If you're coming, we push the banquet to next Saturday and refund half the deposit. If you're not, Chef Zhou says he can still turn around, reopen, and take the table. He's waiting on one word from you. He won't let me decide."

Shen Wanning glanced at the lower right corner of the screen. 3:41. On the digital calendar, tonight held a single line: 8:00 p.m., conference room, Social Sciences Building, Chengjiang University, video defense for the urban-renewal special grant.

"As planned," she said. "Don't take the banquet. I'll be home for dinner."

"Then I call Director Chen back now?"

"Call him."

The receiver went down. The office held only the faint tick of the timer's casing. She opened the paper calendar. In the square for October 17 she had written, in black ink, "evening free." Those three characters were crossed out in pencil, and beside them a smaller line had been added: covering for Professor Xu, 8:00 video. The pencil had gone down yesterday morning. When the department called she had the phone tucked against her shoulder, revising slides, and when she finished she turned the page.

On Wednesday night two weeks ago, Zhou Heng had been cleaning scallops at home, bits of flesh stuck to his fingers, and asked whether she could leave October 17 to him. Hengwei closed at three-thirty, he said. No evening service. Xiao Tang would shut down, and he would come home and light the stove. Shen Wanning had been stuffing a stack of questionnaires into her bag and had not looked up. "Saturday night I'm free. You decide."

Yesterday Professor Xu had gone into emergency surgery for gallstones, and the defense slot for the cultivation grant had landed on her. Department chair Pei Yong had named her in the group chat: two of the reviewers had read her night-economy survey from last year, this round had only this window left, and if she covered it they would file it at the priority tier. Shen Wanning was thirty-eight, an associate professor in her fourth year. If she cleared this gate, the file for applying to supervise doctoral students would be a good deal thicker. She had replied, "I'll do it."

The budget page was still open. Cultivation funding: 180,000. Raised to priority, it could reach 380,000, and the follow-up survey could run a full two years.

She copied the talk onto a USB drive, then pushed the drive to the very back of the drawer. If she still had to return to the conference room, the script should not go home with her. She dialed Zhou Heng's mobile. It rang six times. No one answered. A photo came in after it: the stove at home, the clay-pot lid lifted a crack, a pale yellow sheen of oil on the soup. Under it, one line: Shop's closed. Soup's at home. We'll talk when you get here.

Shen Wanning photographed that square of the calendar into her phone and locked the office. The elevator went down slowly. She did not call Xiao Tang again. Leaving the building, the wind blew her scarf up onto her shoulder. She went straight for the car. The navigation said home at 4:35. As the car left campus, the timer was still beside the keyboard, the digits stopped at seven minutes and twelve seconds.

Chapter Two: Blue Pen

At 4:50 Shen Wanning came through the door. The entry light was off. The kitchen light was on. They had lived in this apartment for two years. The shift chart had been on the refrigerator since the day they moved in. Zhou Heng stood by the window skimming the oil off the soup. The apron was the one from the shop, the edges worn white. He was forty this year. His hands were still quick. His face did not turn toward her. The clay pot sat beside a window cracked open, the lid at an angle. The heat had long since gone.

"The fire?" she asked.

"The slip says reheat at 6:20," he said. "It isn't time. You got here. I'm not lighting it early."

The October shift chart on the refrigerator door was held at the four corners with magnets. His writing was blue pen. Hers was black. In his column for the seventeenth: close at 3:30, home at 6:30. The blue circle had been drawn twice. In her column, "evening free" was crossed out in pencil, and squeezed along the edge was "8:00 video defense." That pencil line had been made at noon today, when she came back for a hard drive. She had not sat down. She had locked the door again. He had not seen it until he got home at four.

"I thought we could eat first and I'd still make the defense," Shen Wanning said, setting her bag down. "Professor Xu is in the hospital. If the slot isn't used tonight, it's gone. The dedicated line is in the conference room. I have to be there in person. I'll eat and leave. Out the door before seven."

Zhou Heng poured the skimmed oil into a small bowl and pulled a container from the second shelf of the refrigerator. The tape read: yellow croaker, into the pot at 6:35. The fish was already scored, ginger threads pressed into the cuts, the salt grains still dry. "What you said was the whole evening. I prepped for the whole evening."

"If I miss this review round, the next one isn't until March," she said. "The shop loses one night's service. It can be made up next week. These are not the same thing."

"Right." Zhou Heng shut the refrigerator. "Your time is counted in years. Mine is counted in evening services. So when you cross it out in pencil, you don't have to tell me. A twelve-person banquet is 4,800. We refunded a thousand of the deposit and held a thousand for next Saturday. No evening service today. That's 2,200 gone. You told Xiao Tang to keep the original plan. The cooks clocked out at four. The shop is shut for good. It isn't something you can open just because you want to."

Shen Wanning looked at her noon pencil mark. The stroke was light, and it ran all the way through.

Zhou Heng took an envelope from the apron pocket and set it on the windowsill, unopened. "Food and beverage director, Boyun Hotel. Sign by eleven Monday morning. Weekends, I have to be on duty. If I sign, Hengwei closes next month. Rent went up 1,600 in August. I've been covering it with Saturday banquets. I'm not using a contract to make you sit here. If you've decided your Saturdays can't move, I'll sell my Saturdays to the hotel. Once they're sold, I won't draw any more circles."

Shen Wanning touched the outside of the clay pot. Warm. Not hot. "I still have to go."

"Go, then." He untied the apron, folded it, and laid it over the back of a chair. "The pot's here. Heat it yourself if you want it hot. I'm going out for a walk. A meal you eat by the clock, I won't sit through."

The door closed behind him. Wind through the window crack nudged the clay-pot lid into a soft sound.

Chapter Three: The Window Crack

The kitchen held only Shen Wanning. She set the laptop at the corner of the table and lifted the lid first.

The soup had cooled by the window. A ring of white fat had set around the edge. A little warmth remained in the middle. The scallops had sunk to the bottom. The ham bone leaned to one side. She took a spoonful. The salt had drawn in. The chicken was faint. Because the lid had sat crooked too long, a skin had formed across the surface.

The mise en place was still lined up in the order it would be used. One box of chopped scallion. One box of ginger threads. Rice soaking in a basin, the water clear, exactly enough for two. She opened the refrigerator. Cold air off the yellow-croaker box hit the back of her hand. The time on the tape was stopped at 6:35. The clock had already reached 6:40. Steam that fish now and she would miss the conference room at eight.

Pressed to the side of the refrigerator was another note in blue pen:

Director Chen's table, twelve people, pushed. Deposit: refund one thousand, hold one thousand, next Saturday.

Closed early. Evening service estimated from the same day last week: 2,200 short.

Boyun: reply before eleven Monday.

She pressed the note back under the magnet and opened the budget draft on her phone. Personnel costs ran Monday through Friday. Saturday and Sunday were gray, the note reading "hours not counted." Across from the gray squares, the two blue circles were still there.

A message from Pei Yong popped up: Dedicated line is set. Leave now and you'll make it before eight.

6:55. She counted the time to park as well. Leave now, and the soup would not be reheated, the fish would not go on the stove, and the soaking rice could be poured out. When Zhou Heng came back he would see the whole prep still laid out, and a pot of soup left to cool by the window crack. The USB drive was still in the office drawer. The computer at home did not have the final version.

She carried the clay pot back to the stove, did not light it, and called Pei Yong.

"Professor Pei, I'm not doing the video tonight."

A pause on the other end. "The priority tier is already in the system under your name. If you withdraw now, this year's window is gone. Liu Ying is grading in the Social Sciences Building. I can have her come down right away. She can only hold the cultivation tier. The reviewers won't upgrade the grant because we swapped the person."

"Let her hold the cultivation tier," Shen Wanning said. "Don't use my slides, and don't raise the ask. The USB is in my drawer. I'll get it myself tomorrow."

"What do I write in the group?"

She looked at the crossed-out "evening free" on the shift chart. "Write that something came up. Say I'll message you separately tomorrow. Don't put it in the group."

Pei Yong let out a breath. "There's another round in March. You know what you're doing."

"Send the link straight to Liu Ying. Have her present the original application."

The call ended. The laptop was closed. The power cord was still in. The indicator light was still on. The overhead light was too white. She switched one lamp off and left only the strip above the stove. On the rim of the lid was a dried drop of soup, like a white speck.

Chapter Four: The Cultivation Tier

At 7:10 Liu Ying sent a message: Got it. I'll present at the cultivation tier and won't touch your data. I'll write down the reviewers' questions and send them to you tomorrow.

Shen Wanning replied with thanks and backed out of the chat. She did not open the slides again. Seven minutes and twelve seconds stayed in the office. Stopped was stopped.

Zhou Heng came back at 7:20, dew on his coat, his hands empty. He saw that one lamp was out, the laptop closed, the clay pot back in the center of the stove, still with no fire under it.

"You didn't go."

"I'm not going." She forwarded him Pei Yong's message: the list has been changed, Liu Ying is on, cultivation tier. Apply again in March.

Zhou Heng read it and set the phone back on the table. He went to wash his hands. He turned the water on hard and let it run a long time.

"You don't have to trade this for me saying it's fine." He shut off the tap. "The priority tier is gone. It's gone. I won't say today's books don't have to be kept just because you stayed."

"The deposit and the evening service. I saw the note," Shen Wanning said. "If there's still a way to make it up, I'll go back to the shop with you. Director Chen's side might still be in time."

"Xiao Tang put the prep into the refrigerator at four. The cooks are off." Zhou Heng pulled a paper towel and dried his hands. "Opening now would be a performance. The loss is on the books. We don't perform a rescue on top of it."

"Are you still taking that table next Saturday?"

"I'm taking it. I was the one who pushed it." He looked at her. "Before I take it, I need to know whether you'll be there. If you cross it out at the last minute again, I won't ask people home, and I won't keep pushing tables back and forth."

Shen Wanning opened the calendar photo on her phone, picked up the black pen, and wrote in the column for the twenty-fourth on the shift chart: afternoon doctoral pre-defense, at Hengwei at 7:00. When she finished she read it aloud. "Afternoon at the university. The schedule's already been sent out. It can't be changed. I'll be at your shop at seven in the evening and stay until close. You run service as usual."

Zhou Heng looked at the line. "I'm booking the banquet for six-thirty. When you walk in, the first course will already be up. Don't explain. Stay until close."

"All right."

He pulled out a chair, took the envelope in his hand, and tapped the flap with a knuckle. "The hotel wants an answer at eleven on Monday. The clause about being on duty every weekend — I'm not signing it tonight. On Monday I'll ask whether they can change it to two Saturdays a month. If they can, I'll run the rent and the labor again. If they can't, the contract is void and I'll find another way. Closing the shop is not the default."

"Hengwei stays open for now."

"Stays open for now." He set the envelope back on the windowsill. "The 2,200 short today is still short. Your priority tier is gone too. Both of those stay on the books."

Shen Wanning moved the clay pot onto the flame. Zhou Heng saw her turn it all the way up and reached over to turn the fire down.

"It sat by the window. Only the rim is cold. There's still a little warmth in the bottom. A hard flame will cloud it."

He pinched a small bit from the box of ginger threads and waited until the edge of the soup was a little hotter before he put it in. The scallops stayed sunk underneath. Neither of them lifted one out.

Chapter Five: The Bottle Cap

When the soup came back to a simmer, fine foam rose on the surface. Zhou Heng skimmed it off with a spoon, very slowly. The color was lighter than in the afternoon photo, and it was no longer clear. He tasted it, added a very small pinch of salt, and said nothing.

The yellow croaker never went on the stove. He put the box back in the refrigerator, crossed out the original "6:35" in blue pen, and changed it to "Sunday noon." Hengwei was closed on Sundays. He rinsed the rice again and cooked only what they could finish tonight. He dropped the greens into the soup and lifted them out as soon as they softened.

The clay pot went onto a trivet on the table. Shen Wanning filled two bowls and pushed one across to him. A faint ring of oil soon clung to the rim. The chicken had gone soft. The sweetness of the scallops had to be looked for before it could be found.

"Where does the envelope go?" she asked.

"Not opened tonight." Zhou Heng said, "Opening it would feel like we're already negotiating terms. I'll take it with me on Monday. If the talk doesn't work, I'll bring it back."

He took the magnet made from a bottle cap off the refrigerator and pressed the envelope above the shift chart so the line for the twenty-fourth stayed visible. The rim of the cap was rusted. It was an old one from the shop.

Shen Wanning picked up the black pen again and, in the blank of her November, wrote: March application, materials finished by the end of February. The tip of the pen paused. She did not add another sentence.

Zhou Heng glanced at it and noted beside it in blue: February evening service runs as usual. No banquets the Saturday of the week before the application.

"Skip a week of bookings. What covers the rent?"

"Other weeks," he said. "I'm not borrowing your time in advance. The way we pushed things today — I'm not doing that once a month."