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Something she knew he couldn't do legally but hey? Who would tell? She wouldn't, that she was sure of. She was nineteen, him being her teacher was the only problem. She was first in class, she sat in against the wall at the very back of the room, her favourite place where she could touch herself and wink as Mr Dean looked up. Every time she had done this, he attempted to smile back although flustered he failed, before looking down and correcting the students course work on his desk. Class began; Algebra. About forty minutes had passed, she rolled her eyes and roughly fingered her hair, looking up to where Mr Dean sat, and sighed. He was looking at her this time, his legs and shoes perched on his desk: relaxed mode she thought. Then he winked. Subconsciously she laughed, a small laugh but non-the-less. Checking it was clear, she peered round the class. Everyone sat staring at their sheets, not one was focused on either of them. So she began un-buttoning the top four buttons of her. ‘This is Christopher, Mr. Plath. Mrs. Plath asked me to let you know that her meeting is running late. She apologizes and expects to be home by 8:30 or 9:00 at the latest.’ He erases the message and stands, a tall broad shouldered man, still trim though his weathered face and graying hair and moustache put him somewhere in middle age. Placing the eyeglasses he has only recently needed for close work on the rosewood desk, he walks across the room to the liquor cabinet and pours a couple of fingers of Laphroaig, the most richly flavored single malt Scotch. It is not quite 6:00 p.m. If she had come home by 7:00 he would have waited for her. Crystal glass pleasingly smooth and heavy in his hand, he stands by the sliding glass doors to the balcony. The apartment is on the highest floor of one of the few tall buildings on the Cambridge side of the Charles and on this cold clear November night he has a spectacular view across the river toward the gold dome of the capital and the Boston.
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