Tart by Jody Gehrman Page B

nodding politely while some beefy guy in spandex shows me how the treadmill works. Medea’s the only living creature I can deal with right now. I’m so sick of smiling and saying, “Nice to meet you,” and forgetting everyone’s names and standing in front of rooms filled with hot, grumpy, sticky people. Oh, man. I just want silence and the cool, fizzy comfort of a vodka tonic.
    All day I’ve gotten the distinct impression that I’m the straggly little mutt among purebred poodles. Most of the other professors are approximately twice my age and are making gallant attempts to take me seriously. I think most of them were fighting the urge to pat my head. My students, it would seem, are undergoing a more delicate process of suspicion tempered by a desire to please. I’ll need to perfect a few clever teacherly tricks to get through the week—like learning to dash off cryptic, alarmingly intelligent phrases on the blackboard, or how to lean casually against the podium without sending it smashing to the floor like I did today.
    On my way home, I drive past the Owl Club, and there’s Clay’s bike parked at the curb. No, Claudia. Do not…
    I pull over to the curb, park and, taking a deep breath, head for the bar, where Clay is seated.
    â€œHi,” I say, climbing up on the stool beside him. “Didn’t know you were a regular.”
    He smiles. God, that yummy, crooked grin. If only I could capture that look in a bottle, dab a little behind my knees when I need a pick-me-up. “Don’t go spreading that around town.” He checks to make sure the bartender’s not listening, then leans in closer. “The regulars here spend holidays on the psych ward.”
    â€œThen I’m in good company,” I say. “After today, electric shock sounds soothing.”
    â€œThat’s right. First day at school, wasn’t it?”
    â€œYeah.” I’m a little surprised. “How did you know?”
    He shrugs, downs a swig of beer. “I just do,” he says. Weird. “I bet you blew them all away. If I’d had teachers like you, I never would have dropped out.”
    â€œHa.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” He catches the bartender’s eye. “Mikey, can we have a vodka tonic over here? Actually, make that a double Absolut tonic with extra lime. And another Heineken.” He turns back to me. “Seriously, I bet you’re fantastic in the classroom.”
    â€œYou want to know a secret?” He nods. I drop to a whisper. “Dude. I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.”
    He laughs. It’s a big, full-bodied laugh that puts me at ease with its generosity. It’s the kind of laugh you want to hear every day. “You see? Any prof who’s willing to admit that is already a thousand times cooler than most.”
    Â 
    It’s 3:00 a.m. and Clay Parker is branding the pale, smooth skin of my inner thighs with a crisscrossing trail of kisses. His lips are hot, and I imagine, a little drunkenly, that I’ll awake with tiny, mouth-shaped burns in the morning. Everything before this moment is a blur: C. BLOOM on my office door, the stick-insect woman in pink glasses, me balancing precariously on a stool at the Owl Club, drinking Absolut from a lipstick-smudged highball. It all dissolves like swirls of smoke, leaving only Clay’s hands pressing my knees wide, his head bending again and again with each kiss in aseries of slow, reverent bows, like a holy man in the midst of prayer.
    The room spins slightly as headlights slice through the blinds and dance across the walls in a dizzy web of moving shadows. I’d like to stay here forever, trapped in the heat of our bodies, encased in this dark room, the occasional rumble of a passing car our only reminder that we’re not the last human beings on earth. Clay hovers over me, tastes my mouth like he’s sampling a rare, exotic fruit. Every kiss,