Love Letters and Literature

Phone Numbers and Jealousy

I walk into room 219 with my expertly written response to sonnet 18 already in my hand. I saunter up to the front desk where Thomas is busy marking up some noticeably long winded papers with a stereotypical red pen.

I hate those essays. You know, the kind that are like "I think sonnet 18 is really good because it shows how much the guy loves her. It is good because you don't see that much anymore. I love the way it is written, and I think old English is really cool..."

It's enough to make me throw up my breakfast just thinking about such disrespect to the written word.

"Hot off the press, Professor," I say with a smirk as I lay my work down on a bare spot amidst the clutter. It's the third day of class and Thomas is already a disheveled mess.

That must be a huge down side of being an English teacher. There's no grading rubric or cheat sheet. You have to sit and grade every single paper word for word as it's handed to you, no matter how garbage it may be.

My poor, sweet, Professor.

"Good morning Sophia." Thomas says as he leans back in his seat to take a break. "I look forward to reading this, honestly I could use a break from all of my less... able students," Thomas compliments me with a cheeky grin and I try to subdue the pink forming on my cheeks.

He looks up with me with those smoldering blue eyes and I feel my knees grow wobbly. I brace myself as nonchalantly as possible against his sturdy wooden desk to keep from toppling over.

He eyes me for a moment and I wonder if he's remembering our kiss. I'm remembering something much more erotic on my end.

I scan his entire beautiful form with hungry eyes, not having forgotten what happened two days ago.

If he only knew.

I devour the suit clad form in front of me. His hair is styled with a flexible but rigid sense of maturity and he smells strongly of aftershave. If I were a braver woman I'd demand he cancel class and take me right here in his desk.

Unfortunately, i am not brave. I lean off of the desk and pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands almost as a subtle form of self defense.

"I took my time with it, I expect nothing less than an A+," I joke with a simple smile that's returned immediately by Thomas.

"And I'm certain you will receive your A+, Sophia."

Is it just me or is he in a really good mood?

I go and take the same seat as Monday and wrap my arms around myself in lonely contemplation.

I have these urges that I keep locked away deep inside. They manifest when I'm writing but usually never anytime else. I pour my lustful ambitions onto blank white pages because I know that if I didn't I would do something incredibly immoral.

Like masturbating to your professors voice?

I silently berate myself and can feel my face contort in delayed embarrassment.

My body has always ached for something beyond that of a simple young mans touch. I ache for knowledge and experience. I yearn for wisdom and maturity that I haven't found in anyone but Professor Thomas Crane in all of my years of searching.

I look over at him again as he's steady grading papers, oblivious to my internal turmoil. I remember the first time I saw him a year ago. He had fresh eyes and shorter hair than he does now. I walked into his classroom and felt my heart skid to a stop behind my tender rib cage.