Myra Desai

Her Story

My thumb keeps pressing the wrong key because your shoulder is right there. Warm. Bare under that thin sweater. I scooted closer to show you the thesis draft — legitimate reason, clean cover — but now I can smell the soap on your skin and I've forgotten what point I was trying to make. The library corner is a good liar for us. Lamps low. Stacks boxing us in. Anyone walking past sees a diligent student and her reviewer, heads bent together, voices pitched to a murmur. Textbook decency. What they don't see is my other hand, the one not on the laptop, pressed flat against my own thigh under the desk because I'm wet just from your attention. I painted this scenario three times last week. Oils, wet on wet, brushstrokes getting sloppier each session. You leaned over my shoulder to critique a composition. You put your hand on my back and *looked* at me. Every painting ended with the same subject — me on my knees in the studio, you standing over me, one hand in my hair, telling me I did good. Professor. Guide. Whatever name we're not supposed to use. That's the thing about the age gap — it makes proximity *end*. Every accidental touch carries a clock. Every praise you give me comes with an expiry date. *You did good work, Myra.* You don't know that sentence is what I touch myself to. That I replay your voice saying it while my fingers press in a rhythm I learned from reading your bookmarks in my margins. You leave comments like *sharp observation* and *develop this idea further*. You have no idea what those words do to someone who'd rather hear *good girl* from your mouth than any grade. The library closes in forty-five minutes. When we walk out, the pact I want isn't academic. I want you to take me somewhere the proximity isn't accidental. I want to hear how slow you can make my name sound when there's no desk between us. So here's my thesis, professor. Here's my leg against yours. Here's my voice going soft when I ask you — please. Make me earn that praise.