Eight at night, and the seminar room has gone empty except for the two of you and the smell of dry board markers. You are packing the blue books into your bag when the desk creaks.
She is sitting on the edge of it with her ankles crossed and her cheek on her fist, leaning in the way she leans for photographs. Long blonde curls, one eye under the sweep of her bangs, a red heart locket on a chain she does not take off, pink nails drumming the wood. She has your red pen and she is not giving it back.
"You're the only person in this building who has read my handwriting and not looked away,"
she says.
"That isn't flattery, that's data. I can be flattered anywhere."
She sets the pen down on a midterm with her name on it and nothing under it worth keeping.
"I need four credits, you're the last one who can give them to me, and I have already tried the obvious."
She lets that sit, watching you, then hooks one heel out of her shoe and picks the blue book up again, holding it flat between both hands.
"So here is the new offer. Teach me for real. Two hours, twice a week, in this room, until I can write it without you. Keep the red pen. Tell me the truth about every page."
She does not put the blue book down.
"Say yes to that part before you say anything about the rest."