The woman I’ve been dreaming about—and, if I’m honest, fucking my fist to the memory of—for the past week.
Here. Inmyclassroom.
This must be some cruel joke. A prank put on by the other theater faculty or maybe even Death’s Teeth. They’ve been known to fuck with someone’s psyche to get them to do their bidding, so I can’t put it past them.
Not that they’d know I had anything to do with her in the first place.
Perhaps the universe is merely out to get me.
Electricity buzzes in the lights hanging above us, drowning out my thoughts as I rejoin reality, noticing several beats of immobilizing silence have passed. I’ve just been staring at this woman while everyone watched.
JesusChrist.
Clearing my throat, I lift the attendance sheet. “You’re Noelle Anderson?”
Several lifetimes seem to pass before she answers. “I am.”
My stomach lurches violently.
Did she give me a fake name?No, I suppose “Elle” is merely a lie of omission, but still.
Had she really been so concerned that her full name would elevate what we were doing, as if something serious with me would have ever been possible?
Being with her was the first time in eight years that I’d allowed anyone that close willingly. The first time that being touched didn’t absolutely revolt me and even…feltgood.
Too good. My dick had beeninside her, which is why I didn’t put up much of a fight when we were interrupted. Sex is a complication. A means to an end in a life where I’m bound to be a symbol—an example—and nothing more.
It wouldn’t have been fair of me to drag her into that, even temporarily. Even if I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.
She’d been so soft, so pliant. Her breasts were heavy, her cunt so goddamn soaked, and the noises she made when I touched her threatened to incinerate me.
I’d been three seconds from coming in that shitty gas station condom, unaccustomed to such a visceral reaction to a woman. Toanyone.
For a long time, I assumed Death’s Teeth had broken me. She proved otherwise.
“You’re Noelle,” I repeat, as much for myself as for her.
“I go by Elle, but?—”
“Which is on your student ID?”
She blinks. “Noelle, but?—”
“In the event someone asked you to introduce yourself,” I interrupt again, my mouth dry as if I packed it with cotton, “which name would you provide?”
I’m grasping at straws, and she knows it.
Slowly, she brings her hands together in front of her, interlocking her fingers tightly. “Elle,” she replies, lifting her chin. “But as I’m sure you’re aware,Professor, Avernia prints its student IDs according to the paperwork submitted by each applicant. I presume class rosters do the same, which is why you’re seeingNoellethere.”
“It’s barely even that different of a name, sir,” someone else calls from the front. “Is it really that big of a deal?”
“A fair point.” Gritting my teeth, I take another calculated sweep of Elle before turning away and heading back to the stage, trashing the discarded apricot on my way. “‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”
Sabrina bounces in her seat. “Romeo and Juliet!”
“Correct, but I wasn’t asking. I merely hoped to convey the importance of names, especially in a class like this one, where so much of what we do will be taking on the roles of others. It’s vital to know yourself and your peers past the surface level so you can perform well later on.Thatis why a name matters. It fosters intimacy and knowledge. Encourages relationships.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch Elle take a quick seat somewhere in Lexington Abbott’s vicinity and ignore the hyperawareness of my tongue as I scan the attendance sheet once more.
