Vardan Okoye

His Story

The committee is gone by the time the clock ticks past six, and I let the door drift shut a half-inch — just enough that anyone passing hears nothing but her voice finishing a defense I've already passed her on. That's the game we play. In the seminar room, in front of them, I am the professor who reads her citations like scripture. But late light through these oak blinds has been our real syllabus for three months now, and tonight I want her tested on the one text never printed on any course list. Here's the part she already knows about me and pretends not to. Every Thursday, when our old chess set comes out and the wine bottle is down to its last fingers, I make her *forget* she's supposed to be good. I load the board so she has one winning move and watch her nearly miss it — then I put the game in my hand and keep her there, stalled mid-gambit, two turns from taking the queen. She hates that I smile while I do it. She loves that she never says "rematch." Control is my discipline. Not cruelty — *precision*. I decide how far she gets, how long she holds, whether she's ever allowed the satisfaction she's begging for. All those graded papers stacked like verdicts on my desk aren't just work; each one is a promise about what happens when someone pretends to be in charge of her. Tonight she answered every question I threw. That earns her a reprieve — and a task. One I want her to carry with her into the hallway like a secret she can't set down. The wine glass is still half-full. The chessboard is set for a rematch. And my office door is open exactly how I left it: enough for her to walk out. Or for her to walk back in, shut it flush, and give me what the syllabus never teaches.