“What a fucking dick.” It’s mostly under my breath when I say it, but my roommate catches it anyway.
“You hear back from the lit professor?”
“Yeah,” I respond, hands scrubbing over my face.
“I told you to take it with Ms. Drummond.”
“I know, but I had another class I needed for that time slot. His was the last one open!”
“And now you have both the pleasure and the misery of staring at him.”
“For four fucking hours a week, yeah. He would be hot if he wasn’t so goddamn arrogant.”
“He’s hot even with his arrogance.”
I throw a pillow across the living room, hitting her in the side. “Shut up, Rae.”
We both laugh it off, but the idea of my writing being lackluster plants itself in my brain and latches like the smallest leech.
A few days, and hours of reading, later— I end up back in the risers of your class. This time I have to listen to you go on and on about David Foster Wallace. The Infinite Jest wasn’t bad, it was even one of the books I like reading the most, but your reduction of it after our e-mail exchange just annoys me. You must be able to tell my attention is waning, because you call on me. I try to shake my head, tell you I don’t know so I don’t really have to say anything, but you persist.
“No, Miss Matchen, please- if my lecture is boring you then we should hear what you think about the reading,” and it’s the way you say it, like I’m not worthy of the opinion I hold, whatever it is.
So I take a deep breath, purely unamused by yet another man asserting power.
“Wallace sounds like he smoked ayahuasca once in the dessert with a native tribe that overcharged him for it and now he sees the meaning the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Sure, I get it, life is beautiful and tragic but did he need 1100 pages to say it? No. John Green did it in about three hundred with A Fault In Our Stars, and that guy got a movie deal.”
I earn myself a few snickers from around the room, and a heated stare from you.
@professor-rhys
My David Foster Wallace lecture is in full swing, the large auditorium filled with varying degrees of waning attention. Even I'm growing bored with what I'm saying, a part of me wanting to pull the fire alarm on the nearby wall to clear the building. Whatever I'm saying is automatic, and I scan the room as I speak. It's the usual lot of college students, every year the same with just a variation in the beautiful girls that line the front row like cheerleaders. They don't give a fuck about Wallace, barely able to speak a complete sentence, let alone write one for that matter. But they're here, hanging on to my every word as if it were oxygen.
I know why they're here and not in Drummond's class. Enough girls have lingered behind after class, tits pushed up and jeans skin tight, as if their desperation will lead to me bending them over my desk for a hard fucking. The temptation has been there, but I'm not a fool. I worked hard to get where I am, my past a hurdle that almost sent me down an entirely different path. So, the temporary satisfaction in 20-something pussy just doesn't scratch the itch for me. But, fuck, has it been a while.
I scan the room, my gaze stalling on a particular student sandwiched between a large group of lacrosse players. They ignore her almost as much as she does them, and much to my chagrin, boredom is written all over her face. I see a satisfying flash of panic as I stop and call out to her, asking for her input on my lecture. I remember her name immediately.
Nycole Matchen.
You were the one that sent me an email about your grade. My jaw ticks in irritation at the memory of you asking to know why I graded your paper the way I did. I had to read it again to refresh myself and I realized that, while your paper was astronomically better than anyone else in my classes, the gall of asking me to explain my reasoning was enough for me to respond as I did.
You seem to shed any trepidation to my inquiry and launch into a speech that immediately makes my nails bite into my palm. You mention John Green and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. As if a movie deal is the end result of anything put to paper. But the generational difference between us almost slaps me in the face at the realization that you're right. It doesn't matter how incredible the author is or the printed words, it's the impact it has on people. Books will always be loved, but nothing beats the adaption to film. Why read about Captain America in a comic when you can see him on the big screen?
I zoned out just long enough for you to conclude your little speech and the spatter of muted laughter across the hall has me glaring in your direction.
"Class is concluded."
The crowd of students lurch to their feet and there's a bit of chaos as they try to make it to the door before I change my mind. I turn away to pack up my bag, my shoulders feeling tense as I stuff folders and books inside. Several voices call out for me to have a good day and I give a faint smile to the students that brush a little too close to say it.
I step away from my desk just in time to bump into you, and we share a glare until I motion impatiently at the door for you to go first. With slight hesitation, you step forward, and I fall into stride behind you. Jesus, this view is better. I don't have to deal with that fucking look on your face, your shapely ass putting black leggings to the test. I can just barely see the faint outline of a tiny pair of panties and I wonder if you know that I can see it. It's a tiny victory that only I can enjoy and I follow you out into the hallway, as fate would have it, both of us going in the same direction.
You try your best to ignore me, and I almost let you go, my hand closing around the knob to my office door.
"Miss Matchen," I pause, waiting for you to turn. You do so with a barely concealed huff and I scoff as I push open the door. "We need to discuss your paper."
You dismiss class no more than three seconds after I monologue about how pretentious David Foster Wallace is, like you couldn’t stand the idea of someone having a differing opinion than your own hyper-educated one. You turn away while I feel the eyes of everyone else on me, whether it be impressed or envious. None of the girls on the front row really ever get a reaction out of you, and none of them seem to be happy that I did. A couple of the lacrosse players clap me on the back, I laugh them off.
I pack up my rented books and palm my iced coffee, heading down the row of desks while texting Rae about plans this weekend. She wants me to go to the Sigma Pi party, but I have a shift at the bar. I send the text and look up just in time to nearly crush my coffee between us. The look of disdain is unmistakeable. You say nothing, but motion me forward out of some obligation to polite. I cast my eyes down after a moment and walk away. My shoulders don’t relax, my coffee and my phone gripped tight. For a moment, I feel relief, knowing that your office is just a few steps away.
Before I can get too far, you call my name, tell me that we need to talk about my paper and I huff as I turn to face you. I try to keep my face neutral as I backtrack, taking a long sip from the black plastic straw in my coffee while holding your gaze. I see how hard it is not to roll your eyes again. You step into your office and I follow, gently shutting the door behind me. “Is this about the upcoming term paper, or the one you’ve already graded? You were pretty concise in your email, I figured you were done.”
There's an empty pause, a long sip from your coffee straw breaking the silence. My eyes can't help but linger on your lips and the way they pucker, a nearby student's greeting breaking me from my momentary trance. A growl begins to build in my chest as I turn and stalk into my office, leaving you to follow. Crossing over to my desk, I place my bag next to a coat rack, and then take off my blazer. Hanging it on the rack, I straighten my cuffs, a tug making sure my tattooed arms stay hidden. When I turn, you have closed the door, and your question lingers in the air as I sink into the leather chair behind my desk.
"Have a seat." I motion at the seat designated for students and wait until you're sitting to lean over and snatch the metal trashcan from the floor. Holding it out, I look at the coffee, and then at you. Instead, you lean forward and place it on my rich mahogany desk, a challenging humor in your gaze. Standing, I cross over before you, and swipe it into the trash can before perching myself where it used to be.
It gives me a high advantage over you and I cross my arms and ankles as I look down at you. Another pregnant pause stretches out between us and I'm the first to break it.
"You're an excellent writer. It's a shame you're going into medicine."
I follow you into your office, taking the seat in front of your desk. Another long, rattling sip from my coffee before I set the sweating plastic on your priceless mahogany— or whatever. A nice desk that people with little resources and lot of debt no doubt paid for. You swipe it into a trash can before perching above me, your biceps testing the limits of your button up.
I set my face, cross my arms and lean back in my chair. Whatever you’re doing, whatever show of power this is meant to be, I’m not into it. It’s hard to keep eye contact with you, but I grind my molars together to keep my eye contact strong. Then you tell me that I’m an excellent writer, and my face betrays my thoughts.
“Excellent? Your email clearly said “lackluster”. If that’s the case, I would hate to hear what you say about the rest of them.”
Your jaw tenses, muscles flexing as you grind your teeth together. You're holding back, keeping your thoughts to yourself, and it amuses me. You want to challenge me so desperately, but you know a losing battle when you see one. Not in wits, no, you have those. But knowing I hold the power over your education is what makes you gnash your teeth.
"It was lackluster." I deadpan and your jaw goes to work again. "But I see the potential."
I don’t even open the envelope when you hand it to me, it might as well be anthrax. Instead, I hold it in my grasp until you take it and open it yourself. I’m barely listening, eyes nearly glazed over until you mention tuition coverage.
Med student tuition is astronomical, and working that hole in the wall to cover what I can without loans is killing me. It would be nice to chill out for a semester.
The packet is thick, I take it from you and thumb through it. It wants all of my information and accolades, as well as a creative writing piece. I chew my lip, wondering if I could add this to the never ending list of shit I already have to do— I figure I could give away a couple of my shifts and I’d probably be okay.
“Uh, yeah, okay. I’ll —uh, fill this out and get it back to you by next class?”
You agree and let me go, still sitting on the edge of your desk when I leave.
Rae is beside herself when I tell her.
“You mean to tell me he invited you personally to apply for the most prestigious literary mentorship on the east coast? And you’re a fucking med student?!”
“I… yeah? I guess?”
“Give me this—“ she snatches the paperwork from my hands and starts filling in my information.
“How do you even know my social?”
“I go through your shit when you’re not home.”
“Sensational.”
I throw myself back on the couch, warily rubbing my face.
“There’s a bit here about a writing sample, babe.”
“I know. I’ll just pull something out of my notes app and make it look pretty.”
She scoffs, shakes her head, fills in my GPA and phone number. I rifle through my phone and settle on a poem about a him from forever ago before opening my laptop to make it presentable.
I agree to give you until our next class to fill out the paperwork. My eyes follow your every move as you rush from my office, the scent of your perfume left in your wake. I let out a growl as I push away from my desk and move over to the window. It shows the front courtyard and it isn't long until I see you emerge below, your hair bouncing in its ponytail as you rush across the center.
I fret over that piece until I fall asleep, exhausted from classes and my evening shift. I don’t get much sleep and it shows in my attire for the following days classes.
I show up in sweatpants and a college branded sweatshirt, yawning with a large iced coffee in one hand. You drone on and on about Whitman, he’s another poet who had an overinflated ego for the writing he produced.
Eventually, you conclude class and I wait quietly for everyone to file out before handing over the envelope and following you to your office. I kick myself mentally for being nervous about this, but the piece I turned over was much more personal feeling than I anticipated.
You tell me I’m accepted and my eyebrows shoot up.
“Really? Just like that?”
You confirm in that lazy kind of wit that you have, and tell me about the first meeting in a couple days. I leave and get ready for work, my jeans and low cut black v-neck tight under the waist apron. I take a copy of the book you assigned with me, flipping through it when I’m not serving drinks. Thursdays are usually slow.
You're barely out the office door and I'm already reading your submission again. Every word has taken hold of my brain since I first read it and I find myself on your Instagram, scrolling through to see who could possibly be the reason behind those words. There's very little to give any impression of a relationship, but I get a glimpse into your life, the background of a bar in several pictures. A couple comments later I figure out that you work there and more searching finds the bar tagged in a photo.
