After my shower, I get changed into a sweater and a pair of skinny jeans and combat boots, and I stuff my things in my bag before heading out.
The air is thick and humid when I step out of the door, and it’s not long into my walk that I regret my decision to wear a sweater, but I don’t have time to go back and change. I can feel the sweat drip down my spine and down my forehead as I hurry to campus, a walk that takes twenty-five minutes. I tried to find an Uber but there was no one in my area, so instead I have to walk.
I hate walking in this neighbourhood, it makes me feel uneasy. It’s the sort of neighbourhood you see in TV shows and movies where secret drug deals go down or there's a stabbing or a kidnapping. It's like the crime scene of every cop show rolled into one.
I glance at the clock on my phone and pick up my pace. I’m already late and I still have roughly ten minutes to go before I get there.
I grip my bag and break into a run.
∞∞∞
I finally make it.
I head up the steps that leads to the front entrance and pull open the doors, racing down the corridor towards the classroom, the muscles in my thighs burning.
Professor Whittaker is going to kill me.
I must look a state, my sweat-soaked hair sticking to my face, my sweater clinging to my damp body.
I round the corner and reach the door, pulling it wide open as I barrel into the room. I come to a halt just inside the room where thirty or so heads turn to face me as I gasp for breath, their attention fixed on me and my cheeks instantly burn.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” a voice to my right says. My eyes follow the sound and land on the most stunning man I’ve ever seen.
This isnotProfessor Whittaker, unless he had a face transplant and became twenty years younger over the summer.
He can’t be much older than thirty. He's lean and tall, the muscle in his biceps filling out his black button-up shirt perfectly as he sits confidently on the edge of the desk behind him, his ankles crossed, and arms folded.
His hair is thick, stray strands falling across his forehead that frame his face perfectly, his ash brown curls just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt. His face is sharp and defined, a short well-groomed beard covering his cheeks and jaw.
He's beautiful.
He’s like a wet dream personified.
“You going to stand there all day?” he asks sarcastically, cocking an eyebrow, his jaw ticking in annoyance.
I tear my eyes away from him, aware that I’m staring, and search for my friend Amy, who's sitting on the forth row up in the middle.
“Jesus. Look at the state of her,” a girl on the front row comments, causing a few sniggers to erupt.
“That’s enough,” the new professor chastises, as I hurry over to Amy, and drop into my seat beside her, letting my bag slip from my shoulder onto the floor.
“Hey,” she whispers with a smile.
“Hey.” I smile.
My eyes flick to the new professor who I find still watching me, and my heart flutters in my chest. I quickly avert my gaze and rummage through my bag, pulling out my notebook and a pen, but I can still feel the heat of his gaze on my skin as I do so.
“Alright. Now, as I was saying before we wereinterrupted,” he begins, his eyes flicking to mine for a split second before he continues. “I will be your professor this year. Due to health reasons, Professor Whittaker will not be returning to teach this class for the foreseeable.” He begins pacing as the front of the room he speaks, his arms folded across his chest making his biceps pop, stretching the fabric covering his arms even tighter.
“This class will cover a range of topics, all of which I will go over in more depth later on. For the next fourteen weeks this class will be split into three sections, lectures, seminars and study groups. I expect each and every one of you to play an active part in learning, I want you to be able to talk openly, and voice your own opinions. Literature is all about interpretation, every person will read a book and interpret it differently, therefore you will come up with your own thoughts about it. In this class there are no wrong answers, and everyone’s opinions are important, I expect you all to respect each other.”
His voice is the most beautiful sound I think I’ve ever heard. It’s deep but smooth like velvet, every word rolls off his tongue with ease, making music in my ears.
“Now, as I’m new here, I want to get to know all of you and help you through this semester as best I can. So every two weeks, you will each be required to attend a one-to-one session with me in my office where we can check in, to discuss any issues or concerns you may have regarding your assignments. These sessions will start next month, so please check your email for your designated slot. As you’ve probably guessed, I don’t take kindly to tardiness, so I expect each and every one of you to be on time for every class, otherwise you may as well not bother to show up at all, I hear Professor Whittaker held the same attitude and just because I’m new here, that does not mean that I’m a walk over.”
His eyes find mine again for a split second and I shift my eyes away, lowering my gaze.
“So, first off. I would like to go around the room and for us to introduce ourselves. I want a couple of sentences describing you. I’ll start. My name is Dwight Evans, I have been a professor in the study of English Literature for the past five years. I had hoped to go into publishing, but you know what they say, those that can’t do,teach.”
