Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
As I walk to Sludge to get a coffee, the early morning air has a bit of a chill. It’ll be hot again by noon, but for now I can almost pretend I’m home, walking out to the middle of the Ben Franklin Bridge and watching the sunlight crest the crisp wavelets of the Delaware. Everything’s still in bloom, so the early morning sun filters through the trees lining the streets.
I like Sludge’s brown and white striped awning and its photographs of used coffee grounds on the brick walls. It’s early enough that Marjorie—the owner of Sludge, as I learned the first time I stumbled in fiending for coffee and was treated to a twenty-minute introduction in addition—is behind the counter. She smiles broadly at me, but her smile fades when she looks down to my arms.
“Hmm, Daniel, honey, I don’t understand why you kids do that to yourselves.” She’s looking at my tattoos. I guess I’ve only seen her when I was dressed to teach, wearing long sleeves. I don’t get some people’s assumption that you want to hear their opinion of your personal choices. And they say it like it’s not rude. I would never say, “Hey, Marjorie, I hate the way you dress,” or, “Oh, Marjorie, you should really have plastic surgery, because your nose would be so much better another way.”
“You’re such a handsome boy. Why would you want to look like a hoodlum?”
“Well, I actually am a hoodlum, Marjorie, so I was required to get them,” I say with what I hope isn’t too annoyed of a smile. “Can I have an egg sandwich and a triple shot in a large coffee to go?” I add, before she can comment.
“How on earth can you drink that much caffeine?” Marjorie asks.
“It’s what all the hoodlums drink,” I say, shrugging, and she turns away to make my drink, shaking her head.
The walk to campus only takes about fifteen minutes. Sleeping Bear College is a hodgepodge of old and new buildings. It was built on land that originally had a large estate and a smaller farmhouse. When they opened the college, they built a number of new brick buildings to house the math and science departments, one that looks kind of like a greenhouse for the art department, and, at the very back of campus, farthest from my apartment, a blocky brick monstrosity to house the library. The sidewalks connecting the buildings are clean and they must pay someone a hell of a lot of money to landscape, because there are flowers everywhere. During the week, students congregate on wooden benches around campus and eat lunch under the trees that dot the grass, which must have been original to the property because they look too old to have been planted when the college opened.
The estate was turned into the student center and the farmhouse into Snyder Hall, where the humanities classrooms are on the first and second floors and our offices are on the third. It’s a cool building from the outside—weathered wood and a huge front porch where students hang out between classes. In fact, it reminds me more of a Cracker Barrel restaurant than any academic building I’ve ever seen. Still, it’s got a relaxed vibe that I like. Inside, though, it’s rickety and worn, especially the offices.
It’s locked on the weekends, so I don’t have to worry about running into students—another perk of my office. The building is quiet and dark, and my heels echo on the hardwood floors. The downstairs walls are white and dotted with fliers for film screenings, clubs, fundraisers, and tutors. My office is on the third floor, in the back of the building, which overlooks the parking lot.
I barely manage to avoid scattering glass everywhere as I juggle open the door with my egg sandwich in one hand and my coffee in the other. I drop my stuff on my desk, making a mental note to clean the mess up before I leave for the evening, and settle in with my course planning for the upcoming week, playing Mark Lanegan on my iPod (which, thank god, I did not squash when Marilyn knocked me over).
I’m so caught up in what I’m doing that I don’t even notice anyone’s in the building until the door swings open and scares the shit out of me.
“Fuck!” I say, dragging my earbuds out. I’m lucky not to find myself clutching my heart. I don’t like to be startled.
And double-fuck me. The huge form in my doorway, carrying a heavy toolbox, is Rex.
For a few days after our… um, encounter, in the woods, Rex was on my mind constantly. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he smelled, about how it felt to be held like that, how he touched me. I mean, sex is great and all, but it felt different with him. He was so sure of everything he did, and it was like he knew me already—what I’d like, how I’d respond. He seemed to know things I didn’t even know myself. And while he was touching me, it felt like he actually cared. I know it’s stupid to read anything into someone getting off, but it felt… I dunno, personal. Then, after, it was clear I was wrong, since he didn’t even ask for my phone number. But then, that kiss. No idea what to make of it.