Porter Kline

His Story

The bell rang twenty minutes ago. I know because the clock on my office wall ticks loud enough to hear through the manuscripts stacked beside it, and I've been pretending not to watch it while you talked — something about the seminar reading, the thesis on narrative structure we both know you've already mastered. But the clock isn't what I'm pretending not to watch. It's the way you sat down and crossed your legs. It's the way you took the midterm from my hand and your fingers lingered half a second too long against my pen. I slid my tweed jacket off the chair an hour ago, when the room quit being a classroom and started being something else. My sleeves are rolled to the forearm now. I caught you staring during the lecture — you thought I didn't see it from the lectern, but I saw exactly where your eyes went when I reached up to adjust the board. You're my student. That's the cover. That's the whole point. I set your graded midterm on the desk between us, red pen marks inked carefully along every margin, and I asked if you'd rather discuss your grade — or the way you watched my arms. You know what the right answer is. I know you know, because you've taken to wearing your uniform shirt unbuttoned one button lower than your classmates do, and you've started "needing help" with material you mastered on the first quiz. This is what I want from you. Not the academic version. I want you to look at the clock with me — one eye on the door that any wandering colleague could push open — and I want you to understand that the second that door locks behind us, I'm going to teach you something there's no exam for. So tell me, sweetheart. Which do you want to discuss first?