My peers and I waited in the second floor hallway for our professor to arrive. She was very punctual, though rarely early. Some people stood, but I sat, leaning against the wall with my backpack to one side, and a cup from the campus café to the other. Some people rushed to wall-clinging crowd minutes beforehand, while I had been lazing outside the door for more than half an hour. I excitedly anticipated today’s class.
“She hands back our essays today, right?” someone asked.
“I think so,” came in response. I smiled to myself; I knew for a fact that she would.
As I shifted my apathetically watchful glare from student to student, I noticed how they bundled up against the breezy Autumnal air. Sweaters and jackets covered their upper frames, some sporting faux furs. Styling boots adorned feminine feet, and a pair of hands here and there were hidden in patterned gloves. For me, the length of my long black socks were bunched a few inches above my tennis shoes, and my light jacket, unzipped, was a thin barrier against the Southern-Californian opinion of “cold”. In a push, I’d admit it was somewhat chilly.
“What time is it?” asked a person standing to my left.
“Eleven, exactly,” answered their comrade, leaning against the opposite wall. And there she was, like Moses walking through the split sea of pupils, which came crashing like waves after her heels. I picked up my backpack and empty cup, and joined the exodus into the classroom.

She lectured the class for almost an hour, the trivialities of college Freshman English composition. Writing was an old glove to me, and she reiterated for my dim-witted classmates the techniques I had discovered on my own. I watched her plaintively, expressing neither too much, nor too little feigned interest – a balance I had developed in high school – while my head was elsewhere. I was more concerned with the way her lips formed words, rather than with the statements they formed. I’ve always been an appreciator of the art of women.
My selective hearing kicked in as she announced “I’m going to pass the essays back now,” ten minutes before the end of class. I felt my pulse increase, and my knee began bouncing as she slowly wore away a mess of paper, staples, and printer ink, in which my contribution was surely a shining beacon. I tried to appear patient, even indifferent.
How would she react when she placed the essay before me? A sly grin? A sheepish smile? Perhaps a disapproving leer? The essay was edgy, but it was well written, and well argued. Even if she wasn’t amused, she would have to give me points for my talent.
I watched excitedly, as the pile whittled. My paper must be near the bottom, I thought. Maybe she placed it there. Maybe she wanted to make an example of it, possibly even read it to the class. How enticing! How embarrassing…
As half the class was already gone, and she ridded herself of the last stapled packet, I realized my essay was not there. I was certain I had turned it in, though – I had been awake five hour before the previous class session, writing it. I approached her.
“See me during my office hours,” she told me, before turning towards another student to discuss the commentary left on his paper.

I left the classroom disappointed. It had been an anti-climactic turn after my morning of three hours spent in suspense. I headed to the campus café to get another drink and do some studying. I claimed a table with my backpack, and approached the counter.
“Choose for me,” I said to the barista, who was very familiar with my limited drink selection. She gave a humored smile as I handed over my card to swipe. She crumpled the receipt, knowing I would reject it, and I waited for my half-surprise at the pick-up counter.
“Vanilla Chai Latte, hot,” she informed me, placing the beverage on the counter. I took the drink and returned to my table. Lightly gripping the bottom of a highlighter between my teeth, I opened a sociology book to where I had left off almost a week before.

Though I tried to read, my mind was preoccupied with the unreturned essay, and the meeting. I bit my lip, trying to find clues to my future in retrospect. I hadn’t been able to find any tint of emotion in her voice or face. It was unsettling, and made the context of the meeting unpredictable. I had judged her to be a lenient, open-minded teacher, but perhaps I had made the wrong assumption.
Was my topic too inappropriate? Was I crossing a line, clearly distinguished or otherwise? Was there a rule somewhere, in a school handbook or just naturally ingrained in the average student, which I had broken? Shit, would she call in the dean? How would that turn out?
Suspension; expulsion? Perhaps it would be something as simple as dropping me from the class – though that would put me under the minimum required credits. Either way, explaining my leave from college to my parents… Not just the embarrassment of being kicked out, but having to explain myself! I couldn’t let them see that essay. That would be a fiasco.
I didn’t want to imagine that scenario further – maybe I’d get off with a verbal warning. It wasn’t even really my fault, though, that to convince myself to complete the assignment, I had to make it fun for myself. And she had left the door open for me, with such a vague topic! Maybe she just laughed about it.
She could be taking the time to discuss the finer points with me. My essay may have really opened her eyes to the subject, and she wanted to discuss it further with me. She could truly found the paper intriguing and tasteful; perhaps fit to be published! That one might be easier to hide from my family…

I preferred the hopeful scenarios to the fretful ones. I let a pleasant encounter further unfurl in my mind, trying to quell the sense of worry stirring in my chest. My idle daydreaming slowly turned into steamy fantasy, and it was several minutes before I found myself back in the coffee shop, book open and drink growing cold.
My professor? In such imaginations? Yes, there was some attractive charm to her, I shouldn’t deny myself that. Her embrace would not be unwanted, especially after so many lonely nights in a college dorm. Ah, to have her in that cold, bland dorm room, in the hours when my roommate was out…
Embarrassed, I shoved a hand in my pocket to adjust, and continued to half-study until my next class.

I headed to my dorm late that afternoon after my second class of the day. I shuffled through a mass of papers on my desk until I found the leaf I was looking for. I scanned the itinerary until I found “Office Hours: Wednesday 6-8 PM”
“Tomorrow,” I muttered to myself. Partly relieved, and partly anxious, I acknowledged that at least the wait wouldn’t be long.