Chapter 6:

"She Speaks in Syntax"

The Student:

She enters the lecture hall

like punctuation at the end of a perfect thought

not loud,

but deliberate.

A walking sentence,

tied tight in her blazer,

hair half-up like a clause waiting to unravel.

And I sit in the third row,

trying to take notes

but only memorizing

the way her mouth moves through metaphors.

She doesn't smile often

and when she does,

it's always too late,

as if the warmth was an afterthought,

as if she's used to being

the fire no one is allowed to touch.

Her fingers sweep across the board,

white chalk tracing symbols

I no longer follow.

I'm watching her knuckles instead.

She speaks of theories,

and all I hear is the theory of wanting.

Of restraint.

Of how desire waits

inside parentheses

until it's too full to be silent.

I start staying late.

Asking questions I already know the answers to.

Just to hear her voice change

when the room empties.

Just to see

if her gaze lingers

like mine does.

She never breaks the rules

but she doesn't stop me either.

She leans on the desk

just far enough.

Close enough for gravity

to start a rumor in my chest.

I tell myself:

You're just a student.

She's just a teacher.

This is just school.

But the curve of her smile

says:

Some lessons aren't printed in the syllabus.