Saffron A. Kent

He doesn’t look like a college-going guy…because he is not.

This blue-eyed smoker is a professor.

I’m so caught up in my musings that I almost miss the golden glint of a ring on his

I’m so caught up in my musings that I almost miss the golden glint of a ring on his hand. For a split second, I’m confused as to what it is. Then I realize it’s a wedding band.

The blue-eyed professor is married.

What do I care if he’s married?

Biting my lip, I look up and find his gaze on me. It’s one of those things where you accidently meet someone’s eyes. It’s not deliberate. It’s not like he was watching me watch his hands. And yet, my skin crackles with the tiny bit of electricity that is left behind after a gaze touches the body. I shift in my chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

“It’s like lyrics without music.”

“It’s so easy to lose yourself in the beat of music, but lyrics keep you grounded. It keeps your mind active, you know. You have to pay attention, listen to it over and over to get its meaning, to read between the lines.”

“Yeah. That’s why I like poetry. Because of the words. They ground me.”

The sheet reaches me and I see it. His name. On the top right corner of the page with his office number and hours, and his extension.

Thomas Abrams.

Thomas.

Professor Abrams.

I bend down and retrieve a pen from my bag and underline his name. Once. Twice. Three times in purple glitter ink. Then I draw a circle around it. I tell my hands to stop, but they don’t. They dig the nib of the pen in, even more furiously at my protests.