It's not unusual for you to develop little obsessions like this--to find something that brings you pleasure and horde it. Or a secret. There was something delightful about pocketing a secret, an obsession between the folds of your skirts, under your tongue, braid it into your hair. But, this one? This one has to stop. There are three rules to obsessing over something:
1-It must not relate to your personal life.
2-It cannot be serious, lest someone finds out about it.
3-If it's something to achieve. It must be dropped immediately.
The easier ones were celebrities--Harry Styles when you were 15 or Paul Rudd at 19. The prohibition era after you read The Great Gatsby. The harder ones were people because if anything fuels an obsession, it's the delicious taste of an ache. People were a game until, well, they became something to achieve. An achievement was different. An achievement meant all previous rules were violated. Because what's more enticing to attain than a person?
The crucial skill to navigating an obsession is to avoid it turning into something you dream about. Because, when it does, there's no telling to what lengths it will go to. The dreams have only ever happened once--and that ended with the pop of a bottle, a drunk text message, a shattered windshield. Was it your fault? Directly, no. But there's always a perspective to find that devoids someone of blame. There's always a way to make it so that all great Neptune's ocean will wash blood clean from your hands.
Out of all of them, the one you harbored for Aleksander Morozov was by far the most alarming. Alek to his friends, Aleksander to those outside of his department, professor Morozov to you. Do you find it ridiculous that he feels it necessary to emphasize that he has a doctorate? Of course. But that doesn't mean you can't admit you find satisfaction in the way Professor Morozov slides off the tongue. And he lives up to the sort of prestige a man who insists on being called professor carries: he drives you to your very best. He teaches Gothic literature and, gradually, you let him consume your life. You spend your time hoarding the observations you have of him.
If he doesn't have a class he's teaching before yours--specifically, Wednesday--he'll walk from his office to the lecture hall with his nose buried in either the book he's reading or the paper he's grading.
His favorite book is Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, but his favorite to teach is Carmilla by Sheridan La Fanu.
He knots his hands in his black hair when he's stressed, causing a single curl to fall loose from the gel and rest on his forehead.
He keeps his beard short and most likely trims it on Thursdays and Sundays.
Most obsessions start by accident. You had spent months in Aleksander Morozov's class, and it wasn't until a Thursday afternoon that you came undone at the seams. The inkling of admiration you had for him splintered and out sprawled a curiosity that had to be fed. It was a spring afternoon, and the classroom grew hotter as the minutes melted by. The window closest to you was latched. Professor Morozov had declared it broken to the student who asked to open it. So, you and everyone else in the upper left section of the lecture hall were sweating miserably. From your seat, you could feel the slight flirt of wind on your face coming from the other side of the room. It was not enough to quell the way your skin felt dry and leathery, and claustrophobic. The room was stuffy, each intake of air noticeably hot, and pieces of hair that weren't swept up into the bun on your head came apart in messy strands. They plastered themselves to the back of your neck. Your body was covered in slight perspiration. It caused your thighs to chafe until they were raw. Without realizing it, you had spread your legs to ease the sensation. Your skirt rid up to the tops of your thighs. It was the kind of heat where no one gave a damn about what anyone else looked like.
Aleksander Morozov was lecturing about the finale of Wuthering Heights, his hair disheveled from mopping it back from his face. His cheeks were flushed. The fan plugged in next to his desk was useless. Professor Morozov had a particular thing for black, which you laughed about with your friends. He was a man dedicated to his aesthetics. He insisted on a chalkboard in his classroom, despite the university having any resource he could wish for. Yet, he was not to be questioned on his methods or style. Morozov had paused in the middle of his sentence when he dropped the chalk onto his desk. He turned around to look at the class and exhaled, "Excuse me, this classroom is oppressive." He slipped his arms out of the straps of his white suspenders, letting them fall loose around his hips. Then, he reached for the third button of his button-down shirt. He considered having three buttons undone already risquΓ©. He was the only one in the department who insisted on dressing so formally and the only one to not go by their first name. With fluid motions, he undid his dress-shirt, and, just as his fingers grazed the fabric, his eyes snagged on you. Between your spread legs, to the hot pink of your undergarment. You wondered how long it would take him to realize he was looking. Keeping your eyes down at your paper to avoid him realizing you were aware of his attention, you would have customarily clamped your legs closed with humiliation. That is if Aleksander Morozov wasn't so damn beautiful under his white t-shirt.
The shirt was thin, see-through, and everything customarily swallowed by the black was suddenly visible. The fabric clung to all the right parts of his body. His shoulders were broad, and his muscles rounded perfectly beneath his sleeves. His skin was smooth and freckle-less, and the tendons in his arms later showed when he leaned against his desk. His chest was well-sculpted, defining his pectoral muscles in a way that made them strain against the cotton. You were embarrassed by the fact that his nipples were visible, their outline showing. He was too and crossed his arms over his chest when he spoke facing the class. The planes of his stomach were less-revealed, but you could make out the suggestion of defined abs upon staring closely enough. And, so, the obsession started with wondering if his sex lines made a visible V-shape you could drag your tongue across.
Like most, this obsession was instantaneous. It was reflexive, a second nature that your body said you had been a fool not to notice this earlier. But that is the way obsessions work. You had left behind Cleopatra a week ago, and it was time for something new.
Now, all your heart and body have space for is Aleksander Morozov. You manage the first two weeks with grace, following the standard protocol. You do your research, making sure that you know your topic of study to the best of your ability. Morozov grew up in the UK. He had studied at the University of Edinburgh and majored in English literature. He had then pursued his Ph.D. in Gothic literature. He had written multiple papers, and you read all of them in two days. His father was never in the picture, and his mother still runs her own carpentry business. You keep it well hidden, too. You erase your research history after nights spent learning. You multi-task throughout all the lessons. One part of you keeps track of all of his movements, his quirks. His crutch word is "therefore." You participate as much as possible and stay behind after class to ask questions. It doesn't matter if you already know the answer. You sit in the front row. See if he'll take the bait.
Last week you decided you were done giving Professor Morzov his perfect essays. Let him find some flaws and take the bite of a B. You'll overcome it quickly, anyway. So, you made sure there were holes in your argument. Things that he would consider sloppy by his standards and, as the obsession grew, you found yourself agreeing with him rather than grumbling in frustration when he criticized your work. Yesterday, you had asked him if you could visit during office hours when your paper was handed back to you. Naturally, Morozov had obliged--he was not the kind of person to deny a student like this.
And so here you are now. You resist pressing the paper to your face, even if it never carried the scent of his cologne: cedar and spice. You keep your eyes fixed on the hall, breathing deeply to restrain your anticipation. This time, you will truly be close to him. You run your fingers over the plaque next to the door, cherishing the script of the letters--their curves, rather than edges. When you finally see him rounding the corner from his classroom, you straighten and smile.
"Ms. Vega, good to see you. I appreciate that you didn't forget our meeting," he says, handing you his cup of coffee as he digs for the keys in his bag. You love the way he speaks to you: foreign and distant, occasionally allowing slips of warmth into the dialogue. But, with his colleagues or friends, he's relaxed. His voice becomes smooth and inviting rather than distant. He smiles more, too. His body is loose, Morozov's actions no longer so uptight. You wish you could have those moments to yourself, but, alas, they are not for you.
He welcomes you to his office. Light floods through the open window, accompanied by a soft breeze that has made the room slightly chilly. To the immediate left sits a black faux leather couch, and it has not gained any wear, the leather uncreased. To the right sits a brass coat stand that, at the moment, has nothing hanging from it. The desk in front of you is swallowed in books and a stack of ungraded papers.
A wire stretches from the plug to his computer and is pulled, taught at a perfect level for tripping. His black traditional desk chair is not tucked in and rests against the antique-cherry wood bookshelf. It looks as if he had stood up urgently before leaving for class. The shelf is unkempt, with books stacked atop others rather than tucked in properly. You remember there being an organizational method last time you were here. Usually, a mess would disgust you. But, you realize you don't mind his. Interesting.