February XXX,
I need to take a moment to contain myself before narrating what has recently occurred. A week ago, I could barely have imagined it. You'll understand if I say that I feel older than my years now. In the company of my friends, I find myself smiling, thinking how I hold some special knowledge that I am almost certain none of them share.
This morning, my roommate told me that I seemed different. I'm not sure what she sees, but I know it's true—I hardly feel the same 20 year old college girl I was a week ago. If I was more paranoid, I might entertain the thought that yesterday evening was merely a hyper-detailed fever dream, induced by too many late nights of studying, too much caffeine, and too much pent-up stress. But no—it was real. I know by the ripped stockings crammed into a ball in the bottom of my satchel. I know it was real by the smudges of ink on my arms, black and mottled like bruises.
Going over my planner, I realized that the deadline for my English 204 paper on
Jane Eyre
was imminent. I had already done a quick outline of some ideas with my boyfriend. On top of that, I'd started a draft of an introduction. I liked the book and felt confident that my ideas were good, but Dr. Moore was one of the more challenging professors I'd had yet.
If I wanted a good grade, then I realized it would behoove me to set up an appointment with him. Along with getting some clarity on my ideas, it wouldn't hurt to score some brownie points. After all, his conduct in class told me he wouldn't be above choosing favorites. It's not that I'd noticed him doing anything unsavory. More so, it was that unlike many of my professors, whose eyes glazed over as they lectured, looking to some point beyond that none of us could grasp, Dr. Moore seemed to see us. Really see us.
His eye contact was notoriously intense. When he landed on me in class as the potential victim to answer one of his questions, his gaze was so penetrating all thoughts left my brain. I was a good student; I took notes in class and genuinely enjoyed our readings, but I wasn't sure Dr. Moore would know that from the way I stammered and looked down at my desk when he singled me out. But after watching me struggle for a moment, he would seem to pity me, so that with a smile he would move on to someone else, relieving me of the pain of my embarrassment.
It didn't help that as far as professors go, he was young and distractingly attractive. I would guess that Dr. Moore was somewhere in his late thirties. His black hair, slicked back and swept to the side in a stylish fashion, was gently touched with grey. Under his characteristic tweed jackets, oxford style shirts, and tailored slacks, he had one of those bodies that seemed effortlessly toned. I guessed he was a runner or a swimmer. I had heard some of the girls in class calling him "Dr. Give-me-Moore" in whispers.
We were all a little in love with him. For this reason, I wasn't surprised when he answered my email for an appointment by telling me that his office hours were full this week. However, I was surprised that he offered to meet with me at another time.
I'm available tomorrow at 6:00PM. You'll be my last appointment before I go home for the evening. Regards, Dr. M
, his email read.
That afternoon, I came home from the gym and took a shower. My skin was dry from the harsh winter air, so I stayed in the foggy bathroom a while longer to rub myself down in shea butter. When I was finished, my skin glowed. I cleared a circle of fog from the mirror to look at myself, my full breasts hanging free, now covered in lotion, and glimmering slightly under the soft light. My little pink nipples resting casually in the warmth. My usually wild curly hair was wet against my head. My grey eyes looked serious staring back at me. I bent down to dry my hair with the towel, loosening the curls from the weight of the water, and left the bathroom.
Feeling luxurious, I put on one of my favorite underwear sets: an emerald silk number with scalloped lace around the edges. The panties were just a little sheer, and the lace skirted the roundest part of my ass. I felt sexiest in underwear like this. My boyfriend told me the fit accentuated the perfect plumpness of my ass cheeks, which I sometimes worried were a little too big. The bra pushed my boobs up and in, giving me a soft crest of cleavage. Over this, I put on an outfit that I thought would make me look cute and studious: an A-line corduroy skirt that hit above the knee. Black sheer stockings. A tucked-in button down shirt. I dried my hair and rolled it into a bun with a few loose curls coming free.
Where are you off to, pretty lady?
My roommate said, arching her eyebrows as I grabbed my coat and keys from the living. room. She was sitting in her pajamas on the couch, typing away at her computer. She looked me up and down, her eyebrows arched.
Me?
I blushed
.
I've never been good at taking a compliment.
Nowhere really, just have to meet with a professor, then get some dinner,
I said. I didn't like being questioned.
God, why do you always dress so cute for everything?
She said, with a exasperation in her voice.
I laughed. I've always felt it is easier to face the world when one is well dressed. But I didn't say this to her. I waved goodbye and she told me to walk safe.
I made it back to campus with just a few minutes to spare until the appointed time for my meeting. Not wanting to be a nuisance and show up early, I made my way slowly to Dr. Moore's building. My college campus is set in the middle of a small city. Many of the professor's offices are stationed in what used to be historic homes, all painted various pastel shades. These buildings are quaint, but badly suited for institutional use. Most are well past their prime, with some amount of peeling paint or decaying wood. All of them smell slightly musty.
Dr. Moore's building, which holds the offices of four other English professors, is a light pink converted old house. His office is on the top floor. Last night, it was the only one with a light still visible from the windows. I went up the porch steps and opened the heavy wooden door. Inside, all was dark. To the left, Dr. Fields door was locked. Likewise with Dr. Andrew's. No administrative assistant at the desk either. I went up the old stairs. They creaked with my weight. The offices on the second floor were dark and shut as well. I climbed the second set of stairs, where Dr. Moore's door glared at me. Based on the architecture of the house, his office might have once been an attic. I knocked. Under the door I could see a thin sliver of light.
Enter please
, came his gravelly voice from the other side. I did as he commanded.
Inside, my suspicions were confirmed. The sloped, unfinished ceiling hung low. The room was small, lined on either side by full bookcases. There was a standing lamp with an ornate, tasseled shade. Two obviously thrifted chairs in front of a desk, where Dr. Moore sat, looking over a stack of papers. Behind him was a window with curtains pulled partially across it.
Ah, Nanette. Come sit down
.
Close the door behind you,
he said, taking his eyes off the papers only for a moment.
I need to finish up one thing.
I pushed the door closed and took a seat across from him. I took my jacket off and draped it across the back of the chair. He kept scribbling on the paper in front of him. To have something to do I opened my satchel and took out a notebook and pen. He still kept working. I started to feel restless. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Trying not to stare at him, I looked around the room. The bookshelves were full to bursting. Papers and letters jammed atop the rows of books. Piles of books were stacked on the floor beside the shelves. I wondered if he had read them all. But of course not—no one reads all the books they purchase.
His desk was in a similar state of chaos: stacks of papers laying at odd directions. On top of one such stack was a book split open as a kind of paperweight. A candy dish filled with jellybeans had the top off. I wondered if Dr. Moore had been recently snacking. The thought of him having a taste for jelly beans made me smile—it seemed so against his mature, erudite demeanor. Close to his elbow on the desk was an extra-large mug was filled with pens and pencils, many of them put in upside down or without caps. I ventured a glance at him and noticed he was writing with a black fountain pen. It looked like a nice one, with a golden nib that made delicious scratching noises as it moved across the paper.
He looked up from what he was doing. His glasses caught the ochre glow from the lamp light. He put his pen down and crossed his hands in front of him.
Thank you for agreeing to meet with me so late
, I blurted out.
I'll try not to take up too much of your time
.
Not necessary
, he said.
This time is all for you.
Well, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it,
I said, feeling my ears grow hot. It was too much to meet his eyes. I looked down at my notebook instead.
What can I do for you this evening, Nanette?
I was hoping to run some ideas by you for our upcoming paper,
I began, flipping in my notebook for my outline.
I'd love to hear them. You're a very smart girl. Anyone can tell that.
The sudden praise only increased my embarrassment. I've never been good at taking a compliment. Though there was nothing strange about it, my hands froze on the pages of my notebook. Then I looked up, but he wore a calm, almost listless expression. Why should I be surprised by a professor complimenting my intellect? I knew I was clever, after all. It shouldn't be shocking that he knew it as well.
But he had already caught my reaction.
Why do you seem so surprised?
He said.
Well...I just always make a fool out of myself in class.
Do you? I hadn't noticed.
He said this with a trace of sarcasm. Was he teasing me? What was I supposed to do with it if he was? Could I tease him back?
I'm passionate about the material, sir. Jane Eyre has always been one of my favorite English novels.
This was the only thing I could think to say.
Why is that? What do you love about it?
He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands, as if what I thought about the book was among life's biggest mysteries.
There is such a sense of danger in it, from the beginning. The power dynamic between Rochester and Jane. She is in such a vulnerable position, and he knows that. But the way Charlotte Bronte writes him—it's impossible to hate Rochester. Their chemistry is undeniable.
My words came out too quick, all in a rush. I hadn't meant to start gushing like that, but the book really was extraordinary to me. Finally, I realized what I was doing and caught myself. I closed my mouth, thinking he would see me for the silly little girl I was.
And that danger excites you
? He said, still looking at me intently.
