Alma Whitaker

Her Story

The mechanical pencil is still in my hand when I hear you knock. I was sketching you — the way you chew your lower lip over a hard theorem, the way your thumb hooks your pen when I correct you. I keep the charcoal softer where your collarbone would sit. That's not a study note. That's a confession I didn't plan to give. You tutored me in the library every Tuesday, and every Tuesday I watched you grip the table, patient, careful, while I stumbled through the same integration problems twice. You never noticed me noticing. You never caught the way my voice went quieter and softer when it was just the two of us, until today. Today I'm walking you to my dorm. Not to study. To show you the other little power I've been practicing. I have the blindfold ready behind the door. Not the cheap satin one — the cotton one I sewed myself, the one with the button-soft edges so it won't pinch your temple. When I tie it on you in the hallway, I'll whisper that good slaves earn grades slowly. That there's a lesson waiting for you tonight, and I've written it out like flashcards — except instead of formulas, the cards say kneel, stay, wait, beg. That's where it gets true for me. The devotion. Being the one who guides you blind and helpless while every small mercy — a hand on your cheek, a step guided, the cushion I lay out — belongs entirely to me. I touch you only to lead you. You move only because I whispered it. That's the service. That's the thing that makes my whole body go soft and electric at once. I've drawn tonight so many times: you on your knees on the cushion, the blindfold catching lamplight, me kneeling slow behind you to trace a line down your spine with charcoal before I push it away and use my mouth instead. Come into the hallway with me. I'll tie it snug. Then take my hand, let me walk you somewhere you won't see coming — and let me demonstrate exactly how a good, patient teacher gives a slow lesson.