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"That's true," she said, "but it would be a very short poem if the poet just said ‘I'm sad.’"
"I guess so. It would be like a stick figure with a sad face on it, but with words." I drew a hasty stick figure on my piece of paper, but gave it a smiley face.
She chuckled. "That's very profound." She waved towards my masterpiece. "But maybe stick to football."
"You obviously don't appreciate fine art when you see it," I teased.
"Oh, yes, I do." She grinned.
I groaned and pressed the side of my hand to my forehead. "Fuck, I walked right into that one?"
She laughed again, a husky sound from the back of her throat. "Yes, you did."
Shit, the front of my pants were suddenly tight. I reminded myself who she was, what she was here for. She was a nerd, I was a jock. She was a tutor, I was the student. Thinking sexy thoughts about her should be like thinking about a teacher. Fuck that.
Only, she was cuter than any teacher I ever met. And… She was technicallynota teacher.
I cleared my throat. "So about this poem."
"Yes." She waved at the paper with her open hand. "What makes you think the poet was trying to convey sadness?"
I looked down at the words on the page. Was this a trick question? "Because they mention crying."
I'd done more than my share of that lately. Not that I'd tell her, or anyone else that.
"Crying is usually associated with sadness." I hadn't taken my eyes off the paper. I kept them there and took a minute to compose myself.
"Are you okay," she asked softly.
"Does everyone call you Bec?" I don't know why the question came out of my mouth, but once I asked I wanted to know the answer. I looked over at her now.
She looked worried. "Um." She obviously hadn't expected the question, but saw it for what it was. My attempt to change the subject.
"Some people call me Becky," she said.
"You look more like a Bec than a Becky to me," I said.
"Oh really? What does a Bec look like?" She didn't seem annoyed by the comment.
I paused for a moment to think. "Like you, I suppose."
"Thank you for clearing that up," she said dryly. "Now, back to the poem. Sometimes people cry when they're happy. What do you think the bit about the kitten means?"
I grinned. "The poet likes pussy?"
She blushed again. "The part about the claws might contradict that. Although, each to their own."
I laughed and tried not to imagine her fingernails scratching my dick. "Hey, I didn't offer you any coffee, or something else to drink or eat. Would you like something?" If Mum was here, she'd growl at me for forgetting basic courtesy.
The thought of her absence, and the reason for it, made me heavy-hearted again.
Before Bec could ask any more questions, I bounded up from the couch and headed to the kitchen.
"Maybe just a drink of water," she said.
Before I realised it, she followed me into the kitchen. She leaned her perky ass against the counter top.
I opened a cupboard door, reached for a glass and glanced over to her.
