Professor William Cameron's gaze always locks onto the upper-left corner of the back wall of the classroom when he lectures. Cameron only looks directly at students is when one asks him a question. The rest of the time, his eyes narrow as his head cocks to once side and his hands move as he speaks. Sometimes he sketches a ridiculous, nonsensical object on the chalkboard and stops when the chalk shatters by the wrath of violent and comical creativity. And the students laugh when he anagrams T.S. Eliot into "toilets".
Elizabeth sits in the back row with a heavy book open on her lap and a notebook of occasional scribblings upon the tiny writing platform attached to her chair. With her legs crossed she swings her foot and sometimes lets the shoe fall so that it hangs by her toes.
Cameron glances at the clock above the chalkboard.
"So, finish the last half of The Awakening, and start brainstorming your essay topic for next week."
Eighty students stand and file out of the room as Elizabeth finishes jotting something in her notebook. When she finishes packing all her things, the tail of the crowd leaves the room. Cameron lingers at the door of the empty classroom.
"Can I see you in my office for a minute?"
"Sure," says Elizabeth. She glances in the reflective glass of the door and teases her hair. Elizabeth lifts her bag to her shoulder and follows at Cameron's heels to his incandescent-lit office next door to the classroom. The four walls of Cameron's office are shielded with dusty literature. A dying plant sits at the far left corner next to a desktop computer shoved to the side. Cameron lifts the chair across from his desk and places it at the side of the desk beside his own chair.
"Close the door."
Cameron holds out his hand and motions to the chair. Elizabeth lays her heavy bag in front of the door and sits across from Cameron.
"How do you like Kate Chopin?"
Elizabeth shrugs. "A little dark."
