Dr. Lewis blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"Pollinators. In your metaphor, we're bees. If bees had degrees. Bees with PhDs."
Is she being odd to mess with you and Dr. Lewis? If so, it's working, because Dr. Lewis's train of thought has jumped the tracks, leaving him with a puzzled expression.
You're rescued by lunch's arrival, brought in by students hoping to limit how bad their student debt will be through work study. As part of your RSVP, you chose what lunch you'd have.
The plate holds a fist-sized chunk of off-white meat covered in a tan cream sauce. The sauce fights a rearguard action against the gravy spilling out of an ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes like lava from Mount Vesuvius. Five green beans curl beneath a roll as if hiding in shame.
Still, it's more appetizing than the thin slices of off-brown beef in gravy that a student sets before Dr. Lewis. The president doesn't look displeased with his choice, however.
"You should have ordered the lasagna," Kayla says. "It's safer. I think." She pokes at her lasagna with her fork. It bloops across the plate.
"Nonsense!" Dr. Lewis says. "The luncheon fare here is top-notch."
You take a bite of chicken and chew thoughtfully. It's better than the cafeteria food from when you were a student, at least.
Dr. Lewis points his fork at you and Kayla. "So?" he says expectantly.
You and Kayla trade looks. "Yes?" she says.
"Go on. Cross-pollinate!"
It's like a teacher at a junior high school dance telling everyone at the side of the gym, "Okay, dance now!" It's creepy and off-putting. Still, you've made small talk in worse situations.