Hot-Air Balloons

Sherlon, my former philosophy professor, calls and says, ‘Clio, my dear, I need a big favour from you.’

I can tell by the way he drags out my name and slurs on the word ‘dear’, that his nostalgia for our long nights on the bright red velvet couch in his faculty apartment has been inflamed by a great deal of alcohol. What I can’t tell is whether he’s just missing me, drunk-dialling to flirt, or has gotten himself into serious trouble. Maybe he’s taken too many sleeping pills while polishing off a bottle of Chardonnay, thinking that this will bring either me or his estranged daughter back.

‘What do you need?’ I ask, sounding off-putting on purpose, even while calculating how long it would take me to get out of bed, slip out of my pyjamas into real clothes, and drive the fifteen minutes to his place.

‘It’s Polly,’ he says.