Page 15 of Office Hours
“This is actually not bad,” I say, flipping pages. “You’ve got the argument. You just need to focus it. You leap from Ahab to Ishmael and then to yourself.”
She shrugs, as if this is news to her. “I kind of see myself as Ishmael, I guess? Like, the observer. Not the main character. I just watch everything happen to me from a distance.”
Her eyes lock on mine, blue and too wide.
I nod slowly. “You can’t be a writer if you don’t want to be the main character, Simone.”
She smiles, a real one this time. “That’s what my roommate says. Andie thinks I’m too passive.”
“You’re not passive,” I say, and my voice is lower than intended. “You’re just playing a long game.”
Her breath catches. For a moment, I think she’s going to kiss me.
Instead, she leans back, stretching, arms over her head. The shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of bare stomach. The movement is languid, calculated, and like a cat. I feel my cock jump, and pray it doesn’t show.
She drops her arms, then smooths the skirt over her thighs. “Do you want to go over it line by line, or just, like, big picture?”
“Let’s start big picture,” I say, then circle a passage. “This metaphor—‘the whale as a blankness that eats everything’—that’s good. You should push that more.”
She scoots her chair closer, so we’re almost touching. She leans in, her hair brushing my forearm, her scent flooding my lungs.
“What if I make it about sex?” she whispers. “Like, Ahab’s obsession is sexual, and that’s why it destroys him.”
My brain short-circuits. “It’s certainly a valid reading,” I say in an even tone. “That’s come up in various pieces of literary criticism before.”
She grins. “Is it too much?”
“No,” I say. “Not for this class.”
We go through the essay, point by point, but every interaction is a minefield. Simone’s knee nudges mine under the table. Her hand hovers near my wrist. She laughs too loud at my jokes, then bites her lip as if she regrets it. I try to play the role, but I’m sweating through my shirt, every muscle tensed for something that isn’t supposed to happen.
At one point, we both reach for the same pen and our fingers tangle. I freeze. So does she.
Neither of us pulls away.
She looks up at me, eyes wet and bottomless. “You smell good, Professor Thomas,” she says, barely audible.
I want to say, You do too. I want to say, I dream about your mouth and your thighs and the way your voice drops when you say my name.
Instead, I let go of the pen. “You should revise this section,” I say. My voice is shredded. “It’s the best part.”
She nods, then sits back. The air between us snaps taut.
We work in silence for another fifteen minutes, but every movement is a prelude, every brush of skin an invitation.
By the time we finish, the sun is down and the room is gold with reflected light. I stand to open a window, and she follows, stepping close behind me.
She sets her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Professor Thomas.”
Her nails are short and painted pink. I stare at her hand, then at her face.
She’s not afraid. She’s daring me to take what we both want.
I can feel the decision rising up my spine, cold and absolute.
This is how it starts.
And how it ends.
