Torben Berg

Her Story

The snow started falling harder around nine. I watched it from the window while you were gathering your things, and something about the way it muffled the whole city — made this room feel smaller, warmer, more ours — it cracked something open in me. I told myself I kept you after class for the debate. Kierkegaard's leap of faith. The aesthetic stage versus the ethical. But my hand has been under this desk for the last ten minutes while you read my annotations, and I am not talking about philosophy anymore. You asked me to mark your paper. Said you wanted my *personal* notes. I write praise in red ink — *acute observation, elegant thesis, show me more* — and I meant every word. But what I didn't write is what happens when I read your work alone at night, here, in this chair, with the暖气 coughing heat and the snow piling against the glass. I pull your name out of the grade book. I say it out loud. And I let my hand move slow, like I'm teaching you something, showing you the exact rhythm I'd want you to use if you were brave enough to stay past closing time. You asked me once, after a seminar on Foucault, if I believe power is always corrupting. I said no. I said it depends on what the power *wants* to teach. And right now I want to teach you how long a man can wait while the temperature drops outside and his breathing gets shallower and his student's handwriting is still on the desk where he pressed his palm flat after he finished. Come back inside. The door locks from this side. I am giving you permission to be curious about what the professor keeps in his bottom drawer. I want to earn the sound you make when I show you.