At last, he stops in front of a building and I stop a few feet behind him. The golden letters on the red-bricked high-rise building say McArthur Building, and on the side in a smaller cursive font, it says The Labyrinth—whatever that means.
I enter the building behind him and sounds bombard me from every side. Murmurs, laughter, footsteps. A phone rings somewhere. A drawer is snapped shut. A door thuds closed. It is a hub of activity in contrast to the quietness outside, as though every soul on this side of campus resides within this archaic building.
The floors gleam under my feet and the unpolished brick walls give the space a homey feel. I want to look around and see what exactly this place is, but I don’t dare take my eyes off him. He walks down the hallway and enters the very last room.
I follow him and as I’m about to enter the room, it happens.
He turns and looks at me.
His mysterious, otherworldly blue eyes are on me, and I’m rendered paralytic. I can’t move. I can’t think. His stare lulls me into a foggy stillness.
He leans against something…a table. The windows in the wall behind him let the sunlight in, which dissolves as soon as it touches his body, making him glow. He takes a sip of his coffee and watches me over the rim of the mug. Somewhere along the way he got rid of his cigarette, and oddly, I mourn the loss.
“Hi,” I say breathily.
“Are you going to take a seat?”
His rich, mature voice slides over my skin, causing a slight sting, like that of an aged liquor.
“What?” I ask stupidly, thoughtlessly.
“Take a seat,” he says again, sighing.
“I don’t…”
He stands up straight. “Take. A. Seat.” He enunciates every word like I’m an imbecile. “Or get the fuck out of my class.”
Class. That word pierces the bubble around me, making me wince. I break his gaze and look around. Sure enough, we’re in a class with twenty or so people, and they’re all staring at me.
I look back at him, frowning, and study his features. The aged, mature features. The lines around his mouth and eyes. His confident manner. The fact that he is intimidating when he wants to be.
He doesn’t look like a college-going guy…because he is not.
This blue-eyed smoker is a professor.
“You’re…a professor.” I repeat my thoughts out loud; I don’t know what else to say.
A tight, barely tolerant smile. “What gave me away?”
Plenty of things, actually. I open my mouth to answer his question but my heart whispers, He’s kidding, you idiot. Sarcasm alert.
Right. I close my mouth but open it again. “I-I didn’t realize that when I followed you here.”
“You followed me.” He’s studying me with shrewd eyes. I wonder what I look like to him—not like that blondie, I hope. Not like anyone else either.
“No,” I answer immediately, without a thought. Did you steal Caleb’s underwear? No, Mom. “Of course not. I mean, I didn’t mean it that way. I just… I didn’t realize this is a class.”
“It is, as you can see.” He puts down his coffee mug, ready to dismiss me. “So either take a seat or get out.”
“Right.” I nod. I’m on the verge of leaving, putting this whole thing behind me, but my legs move forward instead of backward, and then I’m walking through the rows of red plastic chairs. An uncomfortable prickle needles the back of my neck and I know he is watching me.
I take a seat in the back, look up at him—the professor—and find him unzipping his coat. He takes it off, revealing a starched grey shirt over black jeans. As he drapes the jacket over the chair, his movements are deft and fluid, like a melody. I was right—he’s like a song.
The realization brings heat, and I feel hotter than I’ve ever felt in winter. My skin sizzles and my breath skips. It’s so odd. Drops of sweat bead and trickle down my spine.
With trembling hands, I take my white beanie off and shake out my messy hair. Next to go are my fuzzy scarf, my gloves, the purple fur coat, and at last, the black cardigan, leaving me in a full-sleeved white top and red-checkered skirt. I pile everything in the next chair and take a deep breath.
As I look up, my eyes clash with the tiny blue balls of fire. The professor stares at me with a raised eyebrow and hands in his pockets. By the looks of it, he—along with everyone else—has been staring at me for a while now.
“Cold hates me,” I mumble and shrug, jerking my shoulders up.
He shakes his head once and runs his gaze over the class. The students sit on the edges of their seats as they wait for him to speak. I lean forward too. What class is this?
“Well…” He rocks on his heels. “I’m T—”
“We know who you are,” a girl says from the front row, and the entire class breaks into excited murmurs.
Yeah, but I don’t. What’s his name?
“Okay then.” He seems to be a little taken aback at their enthusiasm.
“I loved your latest collection,” she chirps. “I mean, we all did. We even had an Anesthesia night after finals. We read the entire thing. I got the title piece. It’s hands down the best poem in the book.”
Wait, what? He is a poet?
The guy next to her interrupts her. “I beg to differ. I think I like The Nighttime the best. It’s got a certain mystery to it. It starts in one place and then, boom, the ending completely blows your mind.”
“Yeah. See, that’s the thing. I think it’s deceiving the reader. I hate deceiving the reader. I think it’s just cheap tactics, you know. That’s why Anesthesia is the best one. It’s simple and pedestrian and just so powerful.”
“Yeah, it is simple, but Nighttime has…flair to it. It’s dramatic. Sometimes drama is important—big gestures, you know, that kind of thing.”
They argue some more. Words like syllables, stressed syllables, flow, form, rhythm—things I’ve never even heard of—are thrown around. Meanwhile, the professor watches them with a certain shock. It’s comical, really. Finally the girl gets tired of it and addresses him. “What do you think, professor?”
He shakes his head as if waking up from sleep. “Think about what?”
“Drama or simplicity, what do you think is better?” This comes from the guy.
The professor folds his arms across his chest and squints his eyes, as if he’s thinking about the answer. If yesterday’s incident is any indication, he is pretending to indulge them.
“That’s a tough one. I might need something a little stronger than coffee to come up with an answer, and unfortunately, it’s frowned upon to drink in a class. So, why don’t we begin with something a little ordinary? Like names, perhaps?” He lifts his chin to the front-row girl. “Do you want to start us off?”
“Uh, okay.” The girl wasn’t expecting that. “So, uh, I’m Emma. Emma Walker.”
Just like that, the spotlight falls away from him as people start introducing themselves.