It is midway through this semester, and I am taking a Writing Course scheduled for Wednesday mornings.
I work nights at an Art gallery, and rarely get to the class on time, so I usually end up nodding off, sitting at the front of the class. The professor is Lisa; a full-bodied young woman, possibly in her mid-to-late twenties with show-white skin that contrasts her hip length dyed black hair and black lipstick. Her clothing in class is always mostly black, and she wears high-thick-heeled boots buckled and studded with chrome. Silver is her choice for accessories, with rings in her ears, lip, and on most of her fingers. Her nail polish is black.
Lisa is having each student come to her desk at the front of the room to discuss their work. She is sitting behind the desk with an armed chair to the right side. When my turn for consultation arrives, I drowsily take my seat next to her where she begins warning me that my grades are slipping. However, while she is speaking, she calmly lifts her right foot and places it in the remaining space between my outer right leg and the arm of the chair. That is not much space for a boot of that size. I am now fully awake. I begin querying my grades with Lisa, but she doesn’t budge in her assessment of my work. She offers a solution while tapping her boot against my leg; that I visit her office for personal assistance.
Each week thereafter, Lisa calls me to her desk to remind me that if I do not meet with her I will fail the course. In spite of this, I do not go to her office, but I do take one of her suggestions. For my final research paper on the history of Ninjutsu, I place an image of myself on the cover page. In the image I am shirtless, and wielding a shinobigatana. Lisa writes the comment “NICE!!!” in red ink on the cover page, but I barely pass the course with a C grade, which I decide not to query.
Months later, after the graduation ceremony, I hear someone calling my name through the crowds of students. It is Lisa. She introduces me to her parents.