Teaching Mr. Graham

Chapter Twelve

    "So...while we're stuck in here, is there anything you can tell me about yourself?" Tatiana asked the man who'd introduced himself as A.D. "Who are you? What's your major?"

    "The writing classes are what brought me here," he said after a slight pause.

    "So you are a writer."

    He chuckled softly. "Yeah."

    "What do you like to write?"

    "Songs, mostly," he replied. "Once in awhile I'll write a poem, or a short narrative. But songs are what I look forward to writing the most. Writing lyrics fuels me."

    "Can you sing a song you've written?"

    He hesitated before answering.

    After nearly a full minute of silence, she said, "Not to put you on the spot or anything."

    "Maybe...another time," he said.

    "Okay," she said, resting her chin between her knees. "Are you taking Mr. Graham's class? Is that why you recommended it?"

    "I'm in the class, yes."

    It was nearly impossible to contain her excitement. I get to see him every week in that class, then. She smiled. "That's cool," was all she said in response.

    "I'm really glad you decided to take the class."

    She closed her eyes, loving the sound of his voice. "So am I."

    "What is it you write?" he asked her.

    "Poetry. Short stories once in awhile. Poetry is my first love, though."

    "There is a guy I follow on Instagram," he said. "Mustafathepoet. Young guy, but very talented poet. He says things that touch your heart. There is so much wisdom in him, which is crazy. He's so young, but an old soul. I enjoy his poetry very much. I'm just saying, if...if you want to check him out."

    "I will," she told him. "Do you remember any of his poetry? Even if it's only a few lines?"

    "Hmmm," he said, and there was a slight bump against the door to the bathroom stall, as if he'd let his head fall back on it.

    She frowned down at the floor in disgust, then slowly stood up. A wave of sickness rolled over her, then passed.

    "All right...the most memorable thing he's written was a caption, not a full poem," A.D. said finally. "He posted a quote by writer Mik Everett. The quote was, 'If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.' And Mustafa's caption said, 'So I asked her if she wanted to live.'"

    "Wow," she breathed, leaning heavily against the bathroom stall wall. "That's beautiful." The words were beautiful on their own, but were especially so when recited by his rich, deep voice.

    "He has a lot of gems like that, but his actual poetry is amazing, too."

    She replayed the words in her mind. "You don't want to sing right now, which I understand. But...is there anything of yours that you could recite? Even just using your talking voice?"

    "Ah..." He blew out a puff of air. "All right, maybe a little something. I'm just going to recite the words, because...I'm not really in the mood to sing or anything right now."

    "That's fine," she said.

    He was quiet for a moment. Then he said,

    "I never knew our circumstances were this dire,