I opened the front door, calling out to see if anyone was home, but there was no response. Dropping my bag by the door, I kicked off my sneakers, headed for the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water from the tap. My English teacher continued down the hallway to the washroom. He was familiar with the house, due to his many evenings here with my father.

I hopped up onto the counter, swinging my legs as I sipped the icy water. Our water supply came from the well that my father had dug, and it tasted like nothing else: clean, crisp, untainted, and brutally cold. I heard the toilet flush and the door close, and my teacher’s steps as he made his way toward the kitchen.

“Want a glass?” I asked from my perch on the counter.

“Sure, I’ll get it.” He grabbed a cup from the cupboard, where all our dishes were on display behind a glass window. He allowed the faucet to run for a few seconds before filling his glass. “What have you been reading lately?”

“I just started Lolita.”

“Ah yes, ‘light of my life, fire of my loins.’” He paused, waiting for a reaction, and when I gave none, he continued, “The entire book reads like a beautiful melody. You’re going to love it.”

“Cool.” I brought my glass to my mouth and took a sip, then I licked the excess moisture from my lips.

“I’ve never seen your book collection.” He was standing too close to me, leaning against the counter. My body tensed in an attempt to draw it away from him. He glanced at the door. “Why don’t you show me what you have, and I can lend you some stuff that I think you’d like?”

Excited by the opportunity to move, I quickly replied, “They’re upstairs in my room.”

“Lead the way.” He half-bowed and gestured toward the door, which made me chuckle.

“Thank you, my liege.”

My English teacher followed me up the stairs, down to the end of the hall and into my bedroom. It was immaculate, as it always was, everything in its proper place; a perfect palace of symmetry.

“I knew you were a neat freak,” my English teacher teased. “I could just tell by your handwriting.”

“It helps keep my mind calm,” I explained, and pointed at the wall. “There they are.” My father had built me that bookcase when I was eleven. Once it was mounted on the wall, I had carefully arranged my books by size and colour.

My English teacher brought himself close to the bookcase and, tilting his head to the side, walked slowly forward, reading each spine. He fingered a copy of something by Irvine Welsh and delicately pulled it from its place, leaving a hole behind. “You’re allowed to read this? He’s absolutely filthy.”

“Yeah, my parents don’t really monitor what I read.” I sat on the bed and crossed my legs.

My English teacher opened the book to a random page and began reading out loud as he moved toward me, sitting so close that our outer thighs were pressed together.