Bend the Rules for Me

"Class dismissed."

Behind you, students clamored out of their seats and crammed their assignments marked with red X's into their backpacks, or glanced over the scribble in the margins spotlighting all the reasons their paper was lackluster and crumpled it into the trash can beside the door as they stomped up the stairs and grumbled to their friends about how bullshit the grading was.

Everyone left. Except you.

You uncrossed your legs. Slowly. Reveling in the feel of the fabric of your skirt skimming your upper thighs; lingering in the position with your knees pointed outward while you gathered your things and stood up at the same time your professor turned his back to you and busied himself anywhere else.

Clouds of chalk dust fell from the green board, sprinkling his crisp dark blue dress shirt. Professor Uchiha brushed it off, then unbuttoned the sleeve cuffs, rolling them up his forearms until they fit snug under his elbows.

"I know you're there," he said, erasing the last of his sloppy handwriting detailing next week's exam. "I imagine you've prepared an hour long speech about how unjust your grade was and how I should persuade my fingers to enter one a smidge higher when I log it in online?"

You didn't reply; opting instead to simply shake your pages and pages of research stapled together on the whims of late nights stressing red veins into your eyes and the accompanying bags under them.

He dropped his head back and sighed. The eraser was tossed on the metal tray and he shoved his hands in his pockets before turning around to acquiesce your face: slackened in disapproval.

"I'm here to discuss why you think I've earned this when I understood the assignment just fine and wrote a, quite frankly, wonderful and well versed and well researched paper detailing the similarities in the plays down to the themes in how the women treat each other, the direction beats on stage, and use of Germanic language in the seconds acts."

There was no use in sending you away.

Stiffly, he shuffled to his chair and fell into it, scooting it up to his desk and sitting so snug the wood edge dug into his solar plexus. Only then did he remove his hands from his pockets and clasp them under his chin, resting his elbows on the manila folders littering his desk next to the upturned mug of spilled pens crowding his mouse pad.

He regarded you with his blank stare--if not tinted pink across his nose--and goaded you with all the boredom in his tired voice after his lecture, "Well, let's hear it."

Professor Uchiha may have looked you in the eye, but it seemed difficult to do so. Like when someone averted their gaze to hide their true thoughts inside their brain from being seen, heard.

Or similar to when you've spotted someone you didn't like from across the room and strove to ignore them at all costs, despite taking quick glances to ensure they were looking at you too.

Or when you both thought you were innocent gazelles, but you are the lion stalking the thin reeds of swaying yellow grass.

His presence dominated when class was in session. After? When it was just you two? You always got what you wanted.

"Well, considering I can't read your wise remark under the very first sentence, let's start there," you posed, eyebrows raised.

A childish groan emitted from his throat. Ceased abruptly when you turned on the ball of your foot and strutted around his desk to the chalkboard. You picked up the stub of chalk he used that afternoon and wrote your comparisons in an easy to read bullet point list.