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He drinks it when he gets home. Tonight, I’ll already be there.
Oliver opens the book again.
A boy in the second row says, “I still think the guy’s an asshole.”
“You’re allowed.”
“He spends the whole poem acting like losing her is some great tragedy when he’s the reason she leaves.”
Oliver’s mouth moves slightly. He does that when somebody gives him an answer he likes but he doesn’t want them to know yet. “Then tell me why the poem works.”
The boy frowns. Oliver waits.
Nobody else tries to rescue him. He could answer his own question. He knows that. Everyone in the room knows that. Oliver would rather let the poor boy suffer until he finds it himself.
I want that voice low in my ear at night, reading because I put the book in his hands and told him to. I want to find out whether he can make me wait.
Eventually, the boy says, “Because he knows he’s the asshole?”
Oliver puts his glasses back on. That means they’re almost done. “Closer.”
The room comes alive again. People start talking over one another, and Oliver lets them for a while before choosing one voice out of the mess.
I stop listening to the answers. The rest of his voice belongs to them tonight. After that, it’s mine.
The first time I came, I sat in the back. The second time, I moved up two rows. Oliver noticed me at the third. By the fourth, his eyes found me at least once without having to search.
Tonight they’ve found me three times. I’ve been teaching him my face without his knowing. Familiar faces make the first morning easier.
Someone near the aisle starts packing before Oliver dismisses them. His eyes move to the sound. The zipper stops halfway closed.
Oliver looks back at the room. “Next time, we’re finishing this whether you like him or not. Read the last twelve pages before you get here so I don’t have to watch half of you pretend you did.”
Chairs scrape back. Bags open. The room fills with voices.
Three students reach Oliver before I’m out of my seat. The boy who thinks the speaker is an asshole gets there first, apparently determined to continue losing the argument in private, and a girl with a red notebook waits beside him. Oliver listens to both of them with the same attention he gives the poems. He doesn’t look around while someone is talking to him. I noticed that the second month. It makes this part easy.
I put on my coat and join the people moving toward the front. Nobody pays attention to me. They’re watching Oliver, or watching each other while they wait for Oliver to watch them.
“Professor Price, I had a question about the second one.”
Oliver turns toward the girl with the notebook. “The Bishop?”
She nods and opens to a page covered in handwriting.
His coffee is where it always is, on the right side of the desk. I stop beside it as though I’m waiting my turn. I pop the lid, slip in the pill, replace the lid, and put my hand back in my pocket.
The girl is still talking. Oliver hasn’t looked away from her.
I step aside when another student comes up behind me and wait near the end of the desk. This is the part I know. Oliver will answer every question, even the stupid ones. When the room finally empties, he’ll stack his books in size order, put his glasses back on, pick up the coffee he’s ignored all evening, and carry it out to his car.
A woman comes down the aisle while Oliver is explaining something about the difference between regret and remorse. She doesn’t wait behind the students. “Nathaniel, do you have a second?”
She’s leaning into his space.
Nathaniel? That’s a bit fresh.
She can use it tonight. It won’t be his much longer. If she touches him, we’re going to have an issue.
