Jennie, my self-proclaimed favorite student, walked up to the assistant. “Hi, I’m Jennie. If you ever need a hand, please let me know. I have way too much time on my hands.” She grinned.
My assistant smiled and nodded. “Hi, Jennie. I think we’re good for now, but I’ll definitely let you know if we need anything.”
Jennie beamed and headed for her seat. I held back a laugh as the assistant looked at me, brows raised, asking the silent question, ‘What the hell was that?’
I shrugged my shoulders in response. She was on her own.
Busying myself with the stack of papers with the ‘Tuesday’ post-it, I felt ridiculous. Anything to keep me from looking at her. I could smell her now, a combination that was fruity and maybe vanilla—something sweet. It smelled delicious, like a tasty treat you would snatch up at a bakery. I wondered if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
The thought felt like a slap across the face. What the hell was I thinking? It had been a long time since my mind had gone there. My libido had been dormant for so long I thought I would never have sex again. Now, after one
look at my young assistant, my body and mind seemed to be shaking off the dust and pulling the cobwebs away. This was wrong on so many levels.
After giving myself another mental shake, I shifted my thoughts to the lecture I was about to deliver. I checked my watch, looked around the classroom and saw all but a few seats were full. I decided to get started. I shut the door, glanced over at the woman who was wreaking havoc on me and then at the paper in my hands.
Focus!
A switch flipped in my brain, and suddenly all of my attention went to the ocean. This first week would be slow, but I had to cover the basics of marine science before we could get into the meat and potatoes of the introductory class.
Once again, class flew by. I found myself falling into old routines and habits. I loved talking about marine life. It was a subject I could talk about for weeks. Once the class was over and the students gone, I looked around the empty classroom, making sure no one had left anything behind. I knew it wasn’t my responsibility to pick up after them, but it was something I had always done. It was a courtesy, one my students typically appreciated.
“You’re still here?” I asked from the back of the room, noticing the assistant still seated.
She nodded. “Yeah, just for a minute. I want to finish this up real quick.”
Walking towards her, I was curious as to what she was doing. I hadn’t asked for anything.
When I reached her desk, I could see she was making notes on a yellow pad. It looked like math—calculus maybe. I watched her write, her head was tilted slightly to the side, and her long blonde hair had fallen over a cheek. She must have felt me watching and looked up to question me with her eyes.
“What’s up?” she asked, in a casual way, putting her pen down and pushing her hair behind one of her perfectly sculpted ears.
I looked pointedly at the paper. “Calculus?”
She quickly shoved the yellow pad of paper in her backpack, “I’m sorry. I promise I was paying attention to you as well. I figured I could work on this while you lectured. I won’t do it anymore if you don’t want me to. Is there something you needed?” she asked.
“No. I was, uh, I, uh, class is over,” I managed to get out. I felt like an idiot and knew I sounded like one. She managed to get me tongue twisted every time.
“Yes, I know,” she said, giving me an odd look. “I just wanted to finish those while I was in math mode,” she joked.
I didn’t smile. Instead, I just stared. She busied herself by stuffing her things in her backpack. I debated over saying something—anything, but didn’t know what it would be.
I stepped away and took a seat at my desk, waiting for her to leave. I was ready to be alone. An hour in a classroom filled with people was enough for me. I needed time to mentally prepare for the next round of students. I was still reintegrating into society, and needed it in bite-size bits.
A few years ago, I would have gone for a run to release the anxiety. If I tried to do that now, I would probably drop dread dead from a heart attack. My therapist had told me I had PTSD. No, I hadn’t been to war or actually witnessed anything horrible, but the sudden death of my child and wife apparently qualified.
“I know you don’t have another class for an hour; would you like to grab a cup of coffee?” she asked, standing at the corner of my desk.
The invitation startled me. People didn’t ask me to get coffee. I was so used to people bringing me casseroles and what I had learned to refer to as sympathy food, a real invitation took me by surprise.
“What?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee?” she asked again, this time a little hesitant.
“No, uh, thanks,” I said, cutting her off. “I need to go over some things before my next class.”
She shrugged. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nodded, but didn’t look at her.