“Not yet, but I can be momentarily.”
“Do that, please.”
I take one look back through the glass, still not able to put my eyes on her, if she’s even here. Fuck, I must look crazy.
“All right, give me two minutes.” I end the call and slide the cell back into the breast pocket of
my jacket and leave the outlandish thought of crossing paths with her this soon, if ever.
***
My afternoon lecture is a full one, according to the class roster that was sent to me this morning, so that will make for an interesting and fruitful discussion, which is all I can hope for as an art history professor with such specific interests and specialties.
I am still sitting at a small desk in the corner of my classroom, watching the students file in to take their seats. Some are walking in together, in small groups, some alone. I’m reminded of my sister in some of them, and if I’m honest with myself, that feels like a bullet to my heart.
Every day that she’s gone, the spot on my heart grows larger and larger. It’s well on its way to being a never-ending black hole, sucking joy away like a vacuum, because being happy while she’s gone feels like a slap in her face.
The sun hasn’t risen since the day she took her last breath.
I pull my glasses from my face and give my eyes a rub with my palms, shaking off the lingering stress, then rising to my feet, pulling the professional mask in place to greet my students.
“Good afternoon,” I say loud enough to pull their attention from any unrelated chitchat that may be occurring between them. “My name is Professor Tristan Sloane, and this is a History of Western Art as it Relates to the Female Form.”
I turn my back long enough to reference the projection screen behind me, where the slides will play, when the door at the back of the lecture hall opens, sending a beam of light slashing through the room, then closing with a loud clatter.
“Sorry!” a soft, tender voice says before the body belonging to said voice steps into view.
My words catch in my throat when my eyes finally adjust. She’s backlit by the projector lights at first, like something ethereal, but when she makes her way down the aisle toward me, I have to remind myself to breathe.
It’s her.
She blinks a few times, as if she’s trying to see if I’m real. The second she recognizes me, her bag tumbles off her shoulder causing a room full of preppies to fall silent, then looks around for a seat, realizing quickly she’s going to have to take the only available seat… in the front row… directly before of me.
I take a moment to watch her settle into the chair and she begins to dig through that very bag for something, I’m not sure what. She seems wildly unprepared and a bit flustered, but it’s appealing to me. She has this innocence about her wrapped into eroticism. It looks just as good to me in the light of day as it did in the dark of the club.
She’s here though, taking an advanced level class that most only take if they are truly interested in the arts, so that must mean she’s serious about this and eager to learn.
But she was tardy.
If there is one thing that I’m a bit of a taskmaster about, it’s punctuality, and I’d be lying if it wouldn’t please me, just a little, to see what kind of reaction she gives to discipline.
“Pleasure of you to join us, miss. I’m not sure if you could tell, but my lecture started precisely at 1:00 p.m. In the future, be aware that being on time for my class is a requirement.”
She freezes for a moment then furrows her brow in confusion.
Nora
“Is there something about what I said that is confusing to you, miss…?”
It takes me a minute to gain my bearings. I hate the fact I feel hungover for my first class when I’m really not. The way he’s leaning against his lectern catches me completely off guard. Of course, he’s my professor. Why wouldn’t he be? His voice though. It’s deep but soft, like he could be reciting long lost poetry to a maiden or telling her to bend over so he can punish her with his belt for being naughty.
Well shit, I’m glad I get to listen to that for five hours a week instead of just five minutes in a noisy club. I finally clue into the fact he’s leaving the question hanging, obviously wanting my name.
“Nora. Nora Morgan… and no, nothing you’ve said is hard to follow.”
“I see.” He lifts a black mug of some piping hot liquid to his lips and takes a slow sip. I can’t help but stare. It reminds me of his amber tendencies. “Since you’ve finally decided to arrive, I’m going to continue with my lesson.”
I want to shrink into my seat when he finally turns his attention back to the projection behind him, but when he begins to speak about the lesson, my ears perk up in attention. His passion ripples off of him in waves.
“I’m sure it comes as no surprise that sexuality has been ingrained within us as humans since the evolution of our species. That’s abundantly clear when you closely examine artists and their art throughout history.”
The professor motions to the image behind him. As he does, the light catches off of something on his hand. A ring. That ring. There are so many other things about him that I can’t forget as well. His lean against the lectern...or a corner of a bar. The firm grip around the outside of the mug… or glass of amber. The fingers he softly raps on the wood of his desk are the same fingers that wrapped around my spine. Holy shit! Can this really be happening? The mysterious man from last night with the voice, accent, and moves that ooze sex is my goddamn professor. He may call me Petal, but I have the identity of the dark figure, Tristan Sloane.
“Now, this holds true of Eastern art and the history there, but there is a long, sordid history of eroticism being hidden, ignored, and condemned. Though, I am a firm believer that everyone has a sordid desire deep within them somewhere, so I have my doubts that the sinful art truly remained completely hidden.”
He changes the slide and on the wall behind him is a sculpture, easily pre-Christian era, of a man with a large phallus extending from his body, with a woman, playing the harp straddling it like a horse.
“Now, when you see a work such as this, what does it represent or mean to you?” I can feel his eyes bore into me before he even says my name. “Miss Morgan? Would you care to answer?”
The sculpture is dirty. I kind of like it. I didn’t think we would go to this place on day one, but if he is questioning my ability and intelligence, he picked the wrong day. “This looks to be a B.C. piece, I’m not exactly sure of the origin. It’s raw in detail, but it’s meaning, in my opinion, is hard to miss. The man is trying to entice the woman, but what he fails to realize is between the curves of her body and the music, which if you also study as I do, is used to expand the mind and open the soul to another. He should know, she is the enticer not the one being enticed.”
A smile that could easily be missed passes over his lips, revealing the most delectable dimples I’ve ever seen on a man. They actually make my heart catch in my throat. My inner feminist is not happy with me about that, especially after the answer I just gave.
“That’s a very interesting point to take with this, Miss Morgan, and I’m impressed with your courage to speak so freely in this class. Most cower very early, considering the material.” He turns away from us to take another sip from his mug before speaking again. “And it’s Egyptian in origin. That should have been obvious to you by the medium and the curves of the piece itself, not to mention the way it has degraded. Only certain types of sand cause that erosion. Though, it’s day one. I’ll allow that misstep.”