The creases in his forehead tell me that this is hard for him to ask. In the brief moment I’ve been his TA, we’ve had one conversation that had nothing to do with work, where I got a glimpse of the man he was behind the suits he wore every day. As awkward as things were in the beginning, I can’t deny how nice it was to get to know him a little more. While it wasn’t a whole lot, it was more than the dating profile details of him I’d been given.
Hair: Black
Eyes: Blue
Body: Athletic
Height: 6’ 2”
Profession: Professor of Psychology at Brighton University
Favorite Drink: Coffee: Americano, half a sugar
Likes: Excellent time management skills, intellectuals, hard workers
Dislikes: People who talk politics, people who think they’re smarter than you, lazy people
I got to know that he prefers cats to dogs. That he lives alone and doesn’t drink, and it’s not because of a previous alcohol problem, but he always wants to have his wits in every situation and knows that alcohol has a negative impact on your senses.
“I’m fine,” I respond with a chill that could freeze a person. Ever since that day, he’s been distant. I can practically see the sky high double brick wall that has been erected. So sturdy, I don’t think even a wrecking ball could bring it down. Normally, I would be fine with this, because I’ve always been of the opinion that professional relationships should remain strictly business. When the lines blur between professional and personal, that’s when things can get messy. That’s when you perceive things to be a certain way which is far from reality. Somehow, with Professor Matthews, I want to know a little more about him. I’m not sure what it is, but he has sprung this feeling inside of me.
I shake it all out of my head.
“You’re tired. Do you need a coffee?” he asks.
“I should make one. I might actually stand a chance at making it through the grading.” I stand up and walk over to the little station he has in his office with a small coffee machine. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
I make my coffee, closing my eyes and taking in the delicious aroma that swirls around in the air. Bringing the fresh brew to my lips, I inhale lightly before blowing at it and taking a small sip. Warmth instantly spreads through me, and I’m filled with a sense of serenity and vitality. I sit back down at my desk and set my mug on the corner, picking up a red marker. It’s a strange kind of writing implement, and not one I’ve ever seen around. It has a clear end where you can see the ink that flows around inside of it. It can be unscrewed, and he has a drawer full of replaceable ink ends. It’s a nice marker though, and I love using it. The color, which is a shade off being red, is beautiful. The way it writes is even better. I asked him where he purchased them from and apparently he has them shipped in from Australia. Wanting to know where I could buy them, I had asked if there was a website I could get from him and he said no. Another thing I discovered about him. He doesn’t like to share. I’m convinced that were it not for him requiring consistency, he wouldn’t allow me to use the holy pen he holds so dear.
It’s been four long hours later since I started reading, marking, and mentally punishing the students in my head for wasting my time with the drivel they presented in their assessments. There is a specific set of guidelines one must use. Guidelines which have been set out by the American Psychological Association, and too many students haven’t even bothered to adhere to them. The only reason I have made it this far is because of the scattering of students who did do a good job. Who had me thinking about the topic of the assessment and seeing their point of view. That is how you differentiate between the shit ones and the good ones. The poor students who are doing this because they think they know they want to become a psychologist, and the ones that are made for a life as one. They don’t need to change my mind. They simply need to have me ponder their argument and see it as a valid point and thought.
I’m up to my third cup of coffee and hitting dangerously close to that zone where I’ll be up all night, bouncing off the walls and tired for my lecture tomorrow. An eight a.m. start to the day.
“You should slow down,” Professor Matthews states monotonal, not looking up from his own work.
“I’ll be all right,” I argue. I’m not entirely sure why. He has a point, and it’s something I know, but I feel as if I need to disagree with him.
“Too much caffeine is not good for you. Excess consumption of it can cause anxiety, insomnia, and increase your heart rate; so unless you want to be up all night or be taken to the hospital, I implore you to cease drinking it.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had a lot more in a lot shorter space of time, before.” It was as if his pontification released some kind of negative energy out into the world, because as soon as I finish, a violent shake erupts through me and I drop the mug I’m holding, allowing the warm contents to fall down my top, staining it. I jump in the air from the heat of the liquid. The mug lands with a thunk on the floor.
I expect to hear him yell at me. Expect to see anger in his eyes. What I didn’t expect to see is his eyes locked on my now see-through top at
