Written with Love

Mouthfeel

The first day of Advanced Fiction Writing goes by without further incident, as long as by "without incident" you mean I spent the whole time not looking at Noah and trying not to think of last night -- his voice, his touch, the intensity of his eyes on me --  every time he answers one of Professor Hayes's questions. 

Every time he shifts in his seat, or clears his throat, or the five minutes he spends using a ballpoint pen to play air drums against the table. What I'd assumed was sweat when he first came in, was, in fact, freshly showered hair that puffed as it dried, becoming a dark mass of messy waves that he reached to brush out of his eyes every five minutes. Every time he did, I got an eyeful of tanned forearm, his plaid button-down rolled up to the elbow, and a tattoo that curled up into his sleeve. Somehow I hadn't noticed yesterday. 

Clearly, I was doing a great job of not looking. 

"And with that, I'm passing around copies of the syllabus. Expect the structure of each session to be similar to this one, and remember that the class will culminate in a manuscript, 15 pages or more." Hayes says from her seat at the head of the table, and I nod when she glances my way. As if I'd been listening and not fantasizing about the size of Noah's forearms. 

"This isn't an introductory class. I'm not here to teach you what conflict is, or when to use alliteration. At this point, I expect you to have the tools. The job of this class is to help you sharpen them until they're strong enough to cut through anything. The process is not without resistance. Questions?" 

Noah's forearms fade as I grin, caught in the beat of silence that follows her words, in the crackle of energy that suddenly sparks through the air of the classroom. 

This. 

This is the class I'd been waiting for since freshman year. Since creative writing classes in high school and the sharp disappointment of realizing no one really understood the aching love I had for writing. For language, and its teeth, and tears, and endless possibility. The way good writing seemed to weave itself through the gaps in my ribcage, stitching back together the darkest bits of me and allowing anything to be possible -- not just possible, but within reach. Close enough to close my fingers around, close enough to breathe, touch, and promise comfort when nothing else in my life did. Yeah, I'm a bit of a nerd for writing. But, I guess, so is everyone else in this room. 

The moment softens as we seem to let out a collective breath. What was energy before has morphed into palpable excitement, and I glance down the table, briefly catching the eye of the blond girl before my gaze settles back on Noah. 

For once, he isn't fidgeting. His chest rises, and the inch of exposed skin at the base of his throat lifts with the motion. I follow the line of it up his neck, across his jaw, the shadow of his cheek, and finally, allow myself to meet his eyes. He looks directly at me, with the intensity of last night. The beginning part, when I really thought he wanted me. 

An instant flush of embarrassment sends a wave of heat up my face. I duck my head, pretending to study the paper syllabus that now sits in front of me. Trying to focus on my excitement and not the fact that he just caught me checking out his neck. 

"Bring drafts of the Getting to Know You exercise to class on Wednesday. Paper copies. I want you to get a taste of each other's writing styles." Haynes is collecting her papers, packing them back into her shiny black briefcase, strangely at odds with the rest of her ensemble. I hadn't even noticed class was ending and hurry to pack my bag. Hurry so thoughtlessly I knock a pen to the floor, and have to scrape my chair back to duck under the table and retrieve it. When I pop back up, Professor Hayes is gone. Most of the class is gone too, except a few stragglers who are still stuffing notebooks into backpacks, checking phones, and one, the redhead, who's bent over tying his shoe.