Page 11 of Dock

“We should um…” sliding my hand out of his feels like someone’s actively ripping out a hunk of heart, “back to your uh…” A small throat clearing is made to aid in refocusing my attention. “The…” I begin collecting my items that belong in my bag. “The um…”

“Assignment,” states my student at the same time his large palm crushes up the trash pile in one single motion.

God, I can only imagine how easily that thing could wrap around my throat.

Not that I’m into that.

Not that I’m not into that.

I wouldn’t know.

I’ve only had “plain bagels” in that department, and even then, that number is less than half a dozen.

Is that too low?

Is there such a thing as too low?

And there’s Gam Gam’s voice in my head again.

Saying clear as day “Girl, get some!”.

“Right,” is airily spoken prior to me tidying up the space I didn’t mean to frantically destroy.

It shouldn’t take long to return everything to normal, although under his increasingly incredulous stare that’s proving difficult.

Is he undressing me with his eyes?

Is he eye fucking me right now?

Is that why my skin feels like it’s on fire and my heart is booming like fucked up techno and all the air in the room somehow feels like we’re in a sauna instead of a community college classroom with working a/c?

Or I mean…it was working a couple minutes ago.

Maybe it crapped out.

Like my ability to think when he’s this close.

Staring this hard.

Smelling this good.

Is that coconut and lust?!

Does lust have a fucking cologne scent now?!

“You should uh…” my fingers flail off into the distance while my attention stays downward, watching my feet to guarantee they move where I say to, “pull a chair over.”

Hogan ditches the trash and steps away to take the suggestion, leaving me my first real moment of reprieve since he walked up.

Using it to my full advantage, I quickly smooth down my migrated strands of hair, tug out the wrinkles of my cardigan, and situate myself behind my desk, doing everything possible to present a polished, professional front, a front that of course instantly dissipates the second he places the chair to my right, leaving no space between us.

Because why would he?

He’s not the one having inappropriate fantasies that should be reserved for bubble baths and candles and Sade.

Guess that’s how I’ll be spending my next Friday night.

“Let’s um…” I reach across the space – which suddenly feels smaller than my 1st graders desks – for the flimsy piece of paper I abandoned earlier, “take a look.” Post pushing my glasses up my nose, I try to lighten the tension. “See what you’re workin’ with.”