“I just feel like we were becoming too serious, and people are, like, you know, getting suspicious. Yeah. I even had a few guys ask me about it. My parents, too, and I know I shouldn’t be living with ’em and whatnot, I know that, but that’s a whole other issue. Look, bottom line is I’m twenty-three and you’re the head of my department. My dad even works for you! That’s heavy, when you think about it. It really is. I also … no offense, but I think you’re sort of a mother figure for me, and that’s starting to freak me out. It was cool at first—not that my mom has a body like yours or anything—but it’s getting so I can’t see the ‘real’ you because of it.” OK, time to wrap it up now. He’s spinning his wheels, he can feel it, and he needs to just introduce a strong finish here and be done with this nonsense. “I guess … I guess, overall, I just don’t really like you that much. Not enough, anyhow. I mean, I like you, I’ll always like you, but …”

He flinches as she stands because she may be assuming an attack position. His hands start to involuntarily move—just to protect the face—when he realizes that she is only grabbing at her purse, rising up to smooth out her skirt. She doesn’t say a word as she turns and starts off. “Well, hey, that wasn’t so bad,” he whispers, congratulating himself on the overall ease of the operation. But it’s not over yet. He should’ve known better than that. She pivots in the foyer, about thirty yards away, and stares back at him. Just stares. Burning twin holes through the front of his Old Navy sweater. A minute goes by. Maybe two. Then, out of nowhere, she lashes out with one foot at a wooden book-return cart. Ninja-like. Her loafer makes contact and the rolling shelf careens across the marble, smacking a pillar and spilling copies of National Geographic across the floor. A few paperbacks. She misses most of this, however, having turned away on impact—she is more intent on quickly making her way out through the security doors. The last he sees of her is that haircut zipping past the undergrads on her way to the English Department. “Geez, she’s crazy.” He consoles himself with this as he stands, faking a yawn. As an afterthought, he reaches down and tears the cover from the Bazaar magazine. Shoves it down into his cargo pants as he heads off in the opposite direction. Toward his tutorial. Toward spring break. Toward freedom.

Wait