Professor Sparling is so out of my league. What he could he possibly see in me? But he sees something, obviously, because he reached out to me, and I don’t want to lose his interest. What I feel for him is pure passion and I’m exploding with it. Of all the intense emotions I’ve experienced in life– rage, fear, depression and frustration – this passion is the only one that’s felt impossible to contain.
My hands are shaking as I type: Professor Sparling, I wanted to impress you because I’m drawn to you.
If only I could write just how drawn I am to him. But that would come across either way too romantic, or way too forward. It’s not like I can just write to my professor that I spent half of the time in his classes thinking about either kissing him for two hours straight, or unzipping his pants. I can’t even say that I’ve been waiting fourteen weeks for him to really notice me. But most of all, I can’t tell him that he’s the one I believe can lead me out of the dark places where all I feel are shame and grief. I want to end my internal ache, push the pain away, and live the life of a normal college student. College years are supposed to be carefree, but I haven’t gone to any parties. I never even go out for dinner unless the Harts invite me over to Ottawa Estate, or Henry drags me somewhere. All I’ve wanted to do at Addison is be at home alone with my cats. My most social activity is watching movies with Henry. This little online flirty exchange, though, is giving rise to the part of me that has been totally shut down. Apparently along with the sadness inside my body lives a full-fledged diva, and these emails are waking her up like a kiss from Prince Charming. The diva’s voice is nothing like that of my withdrawn, anti-social persona who always dresses in gray and thinks she can’t compete with the Melanies of the world.
I stare at my computer screen waiting for a reply. It comes within seconds.
Sydney, Please call me Paul. And tell me, to which part of me are you drawn?
Call him Peter? No way. I can’t think of him as Paul. Not yet, at least. Part of the appeal, after all, is the fact that he’s my professor. I bet he’d like it if I dressed up as a schoolgirl in a teeny pleated, plaid skirt. I’m sure he would teach me a lesson or two!
I can’t believe this is happening. I am flirting with Professor Paul Sparling, man of my dreams, or at least man of my sexual fantasies. I wished for this a million
times, but I never expected it to come true. And I never imagined it would begin with email.