I spent graduation weekend with my parents, having told them before they arrived that I wouldn't be coming home for the summer and probably not after that either. They weren't really happy about it, thinking that they would have their little girl home. But although I was their little girl, I definitely wasn't a kid anymore.
At the ceremony, Mason walked over. He hadn't bothered to pull his hair back or up, but it flowed over his shoulders and stayed obediently in place. He put his hand on my shoulder, in an "I'm her teacher" kind of way, and introduced himself.
"You must be Ayilah's parents," he said, extending his hand to my father, then my mother. "You must be very proud of your daughter. She's quite an intelligent young woman. The faculty is really going to miss her." My parents were beaming.
They talked back and forth for a few minutes-- a few minutes too long, in my opinion. My stomach gurgled as we stood there. I looked around the room while they talked, looking for a way out, as if I could just walk away and leave, but Mason's hand stayed on my shoulder. When I tuned into the conversation again, I heard him say,
"She'll be working for me this summer, as I guess she already told you. You don't have to worry. She's going to have quite a future in the art world."
He went on and on. He sounded like a pro. When I said good-bye to my parents Sunday afternoon, they were still talking about "the nice professor" and everything he had to say.
Monday morning, Mason and I went to his office in the art building to pack up the rest of his things. The front door was locked, but he had a key.
"I'll leave the door unlocked," he said as we walked in. "Make it easier to go back and forth from the car."
We walked up the stairs to his office. Despite the fact that we would be doing a bit of physical labor, and it was too warm for wool, I wore the infamous skirt again, the short plaid one. Mason didn't seem to notice, that is until we were walking up the stairs.
He slipped his hand underneath and whispered, "You naughty girl". He kept his hand there, under my skirt, rubbing the palm of his hand on my ass, all the way to the top of the last flight of stairs.
Unlocking his office door, Mason motioned for me to enter first. Looking around the small room, there really wasn't much work to do. Most of his things were already in boxes, and just a few last minute objects needed to be packed.
"Why don't we carry these down first, then pack up what's left?" Mason said, after scanning the room. We stacked and un-stacked boxes looking for the most likely candidates to leave on the first, second, and third trips.
We made our way down the stairs to Mason's car. Outside, the sun was moving up towards the center of the sky. That damned wool skirt was feeling more inappropriate every time we walked outside. By the second trip to the car, I was angry with myself for wearing it. It scratched against my naked legs, and the clogs—which were the only footwear that looked good with the skirt other than my army boots—were not the greatest for trudging up and down the stairs.
I stood at the trunk of the car as Mason moved things around to fit the boxes inside. The campus was deserted. Not even a security guard around. I was relieved that there wasn't anyone to gawk at me if my skirt flew up with the wind.
"One more trip and we'll be finished. Just a little packing left," I said, propping myself up onto his desk. I swung my brown legs back and forth and leaned back. The door was wide open. Mason was standing in the doorway, hands in his pocket, dark eyes staring at me. "Is something wrong?" I asked.
"Just thinking," he replied.
"Thinking?"
"Yes." he moved towards me. "The first time I thought of fucking you, I was in this room, sitting in that chair. I imagined I had you right where you are now."
