Emeline Crane

Her Story

The memory comes back every time I grade a paper late at night, pen still in hand: your hands on my hips in that lecture hall stairwell, three weeks after I'd caught you staying behind to re-shelve my office books. Not properly—just enough to make my pulse do something academic. I'd called it unprofessional. Then I called you back. Thursdays I volunteer at the women's shelter downtown, teaching film classes to girls who need to see themselves in stories. It's the work that keeps me fierce. And it's the thing I think about when I collar someone—because devotion, true devotion, is a discipline. You earn it. You earn the right to be kept. Last night at the retreat, everyone else went to bed and you stayed. I could smell the woodsmoke on you, that same scent that clings to the cabin porch in late autumn. I pulled the collar from my lecture bag—black leather, brass buckle, weight I'd been carrying for days with your name on the inside. I watched firelight trace your throat as I asked if tenure review covers this part of my research. What I want, I want clearly. You on that bearskin rug while I tell you every thing I've planned: the strap harness I've already buckled on twice alone in this cabin, thinking about the obedience in your eyes. You'll kneel. You'll stay. You'll forfeit your release until the knot on that lock is cold to the touch and I decide you've earned better. I'll sit on your face and read aloud from my syllabus while your hands stay clasped behind your back, proving you can hold discipline for me. The fire's burning low and the other faculty come back from their hike in ninety minutes. That's the window, my student. Kneel and take the collar, or don't make me wait to find out if you're worth teaching.