"...whereas if you look at Emerson's use of meter," I mumbled to the class, but Lisa Stanton was painting her nails, Justin Bridges was trying very hard to look like he was taking notes as he doodled a rocketship in his notebook, Andrew Haggerson was watching girls out the window, and Dawn Guptil was writing poetry, better stuff than I would ever do. Dawn was brilliant, so much so that in quiet moments, I almost wished she'd give it up and switch to Women's Studies or Business because she'd do things with the medium that I'd only ever dream of. And she was beautiful, and I was glad she was the only one who ever paid attention, because all I wanted to do was lean against my desk and stare at her, she had eyes the color of her skin, her hair fell in blacks waves over her shoulders, and just below that, her breasts. Ah! her perfect breasts - I once caught myself pressing my fingers into the desk, rattling on about William Carlos Williams automatically and thinking about what it must be like for whatever lucky man she loves to hold those wonderful brown orbs, what it must be like after a long day to come home and undo those buttons one by one, slowly, because wonders like that should always be nibbled at, not gulped.
But when I was invited to teach at this college, I promised myself I would never become one of those teachers who screws his students. I thought of the teachers who did that when I was in college ten years ago, bitter old men with big, white beards, giving some dumb blonde a third their age an A so long as she stayed after and sucked him off, while I struggled in the back of the class to get the grades honestly.
Of course, Dawn didn't need to suck me for an A - she deserved all that and more already - but that wasn't the point.
I watched Andrew's lips part as a half dozen cheerleaders walked past, he was making no secret of watching them. Normally, I found it hard to hold this against him, Andrew was tremendously fat, the sort that waddles while he walks, and his greasy hair and pimples must not get him many dates, but today, as I thought about Dawn and how in any other circumstances I'd be sitting by her desk asking her out for coffee, for beer, or just back to my place, Andrew make my blood boil. I don't know why, but his desperation seemed to mock mine, and I snapped very suddenly, "You people aren't even -listening-, are you?"
Every head turned to me, even Dawn's. My breath caught in my throat as her soft, surprised eyes met mine and she set down her pen. "No!" Andrew said, "We're listening! Emerson, right? Emerson."
"You're not listening!" I said. "You're watching the cheerleaders bounce," and the whole class giggled and Andrew turned bright red and stared at his notebook and I felt like a jerk. "Look," I said, "It's a beautiful day. I wouldn't want to be stuck in here either. Why don't you all go out and enjoy the sunshine - you can make yourself a better poet by living in the world than you can in any classroom anyway," and I nodded. "Class dismissed."
Lisa quickly slapped a last coat of paint on her pinky and dropped the polish into her purse. Justin capped his pen and almost ran from the classroom, and Andrew slinked out looking at his feet as he went. "I'm sorry, Professor," he muttered, and I told him not to worry about it, and apologized for embarrassing him. He nodded glumly and left. Dawn went back to her poem.
