In the quiet spaces of the day, she hinted at the sadness of her marriage. I stared off, into whatever distance was available, while she morosely leaked. All I wanted was to complete my work with minimal disruption. If I said nothing in reply to her, she returned to writing, or doodling, making small hash marks on the page, like she had been taught by experience to be ignored.
On the year’s final day, while students darted everywhere, manic to be done, we sat in the hallway, chatting. Weeks ago she had informed me that she wouldn’t be back to work with me again and I had almost swooned with relief, though feigned a dim regret.
‘I want to tell you something,’ she said while looking downward. ‘I said there were things I needed to better focus on in my life.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. 'You said that.’
'That’s not exactly true,’ she almost choked out. 'This is hard for me to say. Very hard. Please don’t think I’m strange. I couldn’t stand that.’
I didn’t say anything. She went on.
'I– I’ve– The best way to put it is–’ She broke off. 'I have developed feelings for you. Serious feelings.’
I still said nothing. My mind had lit out for a sane place in the world.
’Emotions,’ she said. She imagined, I think, that her voice in that crucial moment was italicized. I just blinked. She stumbled on.
'I’m seeing my pastor.’ She blushed. 'I mean, he’s guiding me. I told him a few weeks ago. He told me I had to quit. Please don’t be angry at me.’
She was close to sobbing now. She vibrated pitifully.
'I’m–un–not,’ I said. 'Not angry.’
'I’m so happy,’ she cooed. 'I’m so happy–’
'I’m leaving,“ I interrupted, already in motion. “I have to go. Good-bye.’
At the sidewalk’s far end, behind the long snout of a cargo van, I hid, even though the June sun stabbed and I soon felt ill in the heat. Students pulled away from the school in their shitty cars, stereos pounding the air, tires smoking expertly as they accelerated, while all around me an emptiness grew.