David Fishkind

The sun shone through the window. It warmed the back of his neck. Desks hot and reflective, students moved away. On a piece of scrap paper Alex tried to draw a chair, and, erasing it, the eraser tip broke off. One end of the pink barrel worn smooth, the other jagged, where it had pulled away from the metal sleeve, he put it in his pocket. The heater jangled. Sanna took over the desk. ―Thanks.

―Sure. How was your morning?

He disguised a yawn as a deep breath in, ―Fine. It was fine. How are you?

―Oh, I’m okay. I’m, well, really busy though actually. This application process is ridiculous. I’ve been looking online and there doesn’t seem to be anything available for, well, I don’t know, it’s just so hard.

―Yeah. It’s tough out there. There doesn’t, like, seem to be, he felt in pain, not admiring, but envying her bemoaning spirit and willingness to want more… But no, it was probably just that she took over the desk, wore a wool cap covering her champagne hair and skin, like paper, he thought, when their hands brushed at the back of the chair, he estimated, once every two or so weeks, where he removed his jacket, reminding himself to appear affable, ―there’s not really, like, anything for anyone out there.

―I may resign to adjuncting.

―Might be better than this.

―May be.

―What are you up to this weekend?

―Isn’t it Thursday?

―Yeah, I, never mind. She was already in the seat, logging out of his account.

―See you tomorrow then.