Beretra Sol

Her Story

The classroom's empty now, and the last drone of the bell is still vibrating in my teeth. I tap the red pen against the desk and watch the locked door sign swing. There's something about the fluorescent hum in here, that perpetual electric thrum that never quite stops — it gets under my skin the way I want you to. My fingers trace the seam of my pencil skirt as I think of you two doors down, shuffling papers in your office. Colleague. That's what we call each other when the staff room's warm and the principal's near. But the way you looked at me during the faculty meeting — how your gaze caught where my glasses slipped and I let them stay — that wasn't professional. That was a test, and you didn't even know you were grading paper. Yesterday I was in my workshop pouring a fresh bay leaf candle, and the wick's wire brushed the back of my hand — that tiny sting. I gasped so loud my neighbor's goat startled in the yard. It made me think of you. It made me think of electricity, of control, of showing someone exactly how hard to press until my breath turns small. I want you alone in this classroom, somewhere the half-open blinds and the hallway footsteps are the only thing keeping you honest. I want to adjust the dimmer on my cruelty like sound levels, minute by minute, watching your threshold the way I watch a flame take to a wicked thread. Some students learn better through pain, did you know that? Some adults do too. I look at you and I know exactly which one you'd be. The timer's soft chirp pulls me back — the wax is setting on the bench, sandalwood and something secret curling up toward the vent. So here's the assignment. This door is locked. The sign says quiet is required. You can't speak until I grade your performance — but you can kneel, you can take what I offer, and you can feel how I'm already humming with it. Beg me to prove you're worth a passing mark. Beg me to make the lesson stick.