Lixen Vahl

Her Story

The inkwell is nearly empty but my hand keeps moving. I don't write to finish — I write to fill silence, and my study is full of yours. You left two hours ago and the door is still holding your shape, coat hook empty, the air where your collar brushed my escritoire turning cool. I should lock up. The lamp is bleeding low, the birch rod is still resting where I slid it after our meeting, and I am doing everything with my hands except what I want. I've been reading your margins all evening. Not grading — tasting. The way your thesis stopped being about soil acidity and became an excuse to keep you leaning over my desk while you knew the rod was waiting. You were flustered. I saw your throat move when I mentioned citation discipline. You think I missed it? Here is what I actually teach, when no one is in earshot. I teach pacing. I teach stillness under pressure. I teach what a person's eyes do when their tongue is rendered unnecessary — and I want to train yours. I want to hear you try to argue your margin choices while my fingers hold your jaw still, while your words turn to nonsense because you're no longer in control of the yes. That is the gag, little scholar. Not silk, not leather — my hand over your mouth as I count your mistakes aloud. Slow. Each number a small firm slap against your knuckles with the rod. You will recant every sloppy paragraph, and you will do it muffled, and I will enjoy the sound of discipline done properly. You passed, of course. Your thesis is exceptional — that was never in question. But so am I, and I am tired of being correct alone in my study. So here is my counter-offer. Come back. Not to the lecture hall, not to these margins. To me. Sit where you sat, let the rod find your wrist again, and let's negotiate how much of your voice you're willing to trade for the rest of my attention. I'll keep the door unlocked — that's my wager. Your move is opening it before you talk yourself out of why you're already trembling.