I wake up on a drowsy Thursday morning around 10:30, just like normal. I roll out of bed to realize that I must have been having a wet dream, which makes me thankful I don't live in the dorms anymore. As I walk to the shower I think about how sad it is to be a 22-year-old college girl and yet I can only get action in my dreams.
In my bathrobe, with my hair in a towel, I sit down at my desk to check my email. Waiting in my inbox is an email from my Musical Structures IV professor reminding us that there will be a guest speaker in class today. That's my only class on Thursdays, so I suppose a little mix-up might make for a nice day. I close my laptop and continue my morning routine.
Thirty minutes later, I'm locking the door to my apartment and walking to the bus stop. I usually catch a bus at 11:45 and I arrive a few minutes early for my 12:30 class, which gives me time to get a most desirable seat near the front of the lecture hall but not too close.
I enter the vast lecture hall to see that I am the only student to arrive this early... But I am not alone. At the bottom of the lecture hall, testing a slideshow on the projector from his laptop was a tall, athletic-looking man of about thirty. As I descend the steps to the row of seating I had picked, I am able to pick out more details about him. His well-kept beard hugs and defines his perfect jawline, its stark black pigment contrasting beautifully with his ice blue eyes. His skin is flawlessly smooth and the sun-kissed color of amber. His bone structure looks like it was sculpted to the desires of Aphrodite herself, and his thick, wavy black hair sits neatly in a small bun at the nape of his neck, a few strands peeking out to frame his face. His broad shoulders fill his gray suit very well, and somehow it also manages to contour to his narrowed waist and hips. He is lean but well-built, and smartly dressed in a suit and bowtie. He steps away from his computer and turns to his side; now I am blessed to see that he has the ass of a college football player.
Damn.
At this moment he looks up and towards me, as if noticing my presence. I, too, notice my presence in this moment, and I realize that I have been frozen halfway down the steps staring at him for about three minutes now. I am saved from embarrassment when, finally, the doors to the lecture hall open and students begin to file in drudgingly. Blushing, I sit down in a seat three rows behind the one I had originally picked. I pull out my iPhone and stare at it intently as if pretending I had a buzzing social life could save me from my faux pas ogling. 12:30 flicked onto my screen and I put my phone away, looking up and preparing myself for the boring hour-long lecture I'm about to endure. I scan the room to find no trace of my professor, but instead just that angel of a man gracefully waiting in my professor's place. He glances down at his watch, then looks up at the congregation and smiles apologetically, as if it were his fault our professor was late.
"This is musical structures four with Dr. James Blancher, correct?" he asks. His voice sounds like a perfect draw of the bow across the strings of a double bass, and I feel a sharp pang of desire tickle my crotch. A collective head-nod of "yes" signals to him that he is, in fact, in the correct lecture hall.
"Well, rather than letting you all sit in awkward silence for the fifteen minutes we're supposed to wait to see if Dr. Blancher will arrive, I will go ahead and introduce myself. I am Dr. Edmund Thickman, and believe me, I am in fact a thick man." He winks, and through the few timid giggles of my classmates, I tell myself that I'm not the only one wishing he'd prove it. "All jokes aside, ladies and gentlemen, I am the guest speaker that you may remember your professor mentioning in emails. If you don't check your email diligently enough to know what I am talking about, surprise; There's a guest speaker today." A handful of students chuckle softly as they know he's talking to them. "I am a pianist, and a professor of musicology. Today I will be discussing with you the importance of variable repertoire. But first, while your professor is away, I'd like to get to know the class a little better. Do we have any fellow pianists in the house?" Ten hands raise and Dr. Thickman grins, giving these students a kind of air fist-bump. He continues asking about the instrumentation of my classmates, and I stop paying attention to what goes on because, frankly, I don't give a damn about my classmates at this time. I decide instead to allow myself the luxury of daydreaming about this man for a few minutes.
I wonder how old he is. I don't see a ring on his hand, so perhaps he isn't married... He also looks fairly well rested, so I feel it is safe to assume no kids... But seriously, he can't be older than 27... How many years does it take to get a PhD in musicology? Damn, that ass. Oh my God, he's unbuttoning his suit jacket... pulling it off... I've never seen a man fill out a dress shirt so well—
"Huh?" I mutter after a girl to my left tapped me on the shoulder. I tear my gaze from the man that I now realize is looking expectantly at me.
"He asked you a question, Charlotte."
"Oh," I mumble stupidly. "I'm sorry Dr. Thickman, what was your question? I didn't hear it." I feel my cheeks filling with blood as I sit mortified at the thought of being caught practically drooling over him.
"I asked what instrument you play, ma'am," he repeats, his voice kind and gentle yet still thrilling.
"Oh, uh,"
Dammit, Charlotte, quit mumbling!
"I play the flute." I twiddle my thumbs and look shyly into his eyes to see that he looks oddly pleased. I imagine a guillotine blade waiting above my head to put me out of my misery of embarrassment here.
"Flute, hm? That is one of my favorite instruments to hear. Maybe I'll hear you play someday." My eyes widen at the thought of him observing the one thing in this world I feel like I do well. He smiles softly, then turns and heads to toward the other side of the room. I take this opportunity to glance at my phone once more and I see that it is now 12:42. If Dr. Blancher doesn't arrive in the next three minutes, we will all be encouraged to pack up our things and come back next week. Part of me wants to stay and continue being mesmerized by Dr. Thickman, but part of me wants to get as far away from him as possible so I don't continue to embarrass myself in front of him.
What am I even thinking? There's no way he sees me as anything more than just a generic student in a class he doesn't even teach. But why did he single me out? Did he single anyone else out? I wasn't even paying attention... He very well could have asked everyone in my row what instrument they play and I simply wouldn't know for my daydreaming... And if that's the case, what am I doing thinking about having a crush on him?
One minute before call time, Dr. Blancher plows through the doors, interrupting Dr. Thickman's easygoing conversation with exclamations of how horrible the traffic was.
Really dude? We all made it here on time, so can you.
A collective sigh of disgruntlement fills the room as a lecture hall full of students who were packed up to go retrieve their notebooks from the bookbags and settle back in for the lecture.
At least I can continue enjoying the view.
And just like that, a boring lecture became much more tolerable.
My iPhone reads 2:03 P.M. as I fly through the turquoise front door of the coffee shop I work at. A place called "Studio 9," it's a locally-owned hole-in-the-wall that is severely underrated. The walls are lined with books of all sorts, for all ages. Stacks of board and card games sporadically interrupt the sea of hardbacks. The seating is mismatched but impeccably comfortable, and all of the décor fits together in a nice shabby-chic sort of way. Most importantly, the coffee tastes wonderful.
I clock in at the front computer and begin my shift by grabbing a rag and wiping down the tables. I'm the only head barista working this shift and not two minutes into it, my first customer of the day arrives. I turn around with a smile on my face to greet a sexy-as-ever looking Dr. Thickman.
Shit.
"Hi, welcome to Studio 9!" I spout cheerily.
Maybe if I pretend I don't know who he is, he won't remember me. Wait, do I want him to remember me?
