Smoke of Sighs

Chapter 8: Pfund et al., 2013

Chapter 8: Pfund et al., 2013

"A prime opportunity for robust student faculty interaction is during office hours. There, students can seek extra help, discuss material related to the course, examine related interests, receive career guidance, or have a casual conversation."

Pfund, R. A., Rogan, J. D., Burham, B. R., & Norcross, J. (2013). Is the professor in? Faculty presence during office hours. College Student Journal, 47(3), 524–529.

***

KAYDEN

"Moral of the story? People are so fucked up, man."

I chuckle. I take a swig of my beer and exhale a heavy sigh, sinking into the worn leather of my sofa beneath me. "And the system's fucked up too, right?"

"For sure," Jack agrees. He sounds tired, even through the phone. "There isn't enough funding for psychotherapy so shrinks just dish out pills that don't solve shit, you know? Like, a Valium isn't a legit coping strategy, fuckers."

I can tell that he's just thrilled with his choice to go to U of T to start his psychiatric residency. Four provinces away. When we want to go out for a drink these days we just do it over speakerphone. He's just finished regaling me of all the institutional horrors he's experienced since he started his program a little over a month ago.

"The future's a dark bitch, man." Some more beer. This conversation has been depressing as fuck and I need to get buzzed. "Especially when the kids these days are graduating undergrad without even knowing basic stats." So maybe I'm a little salty. "The next generation of clinical practitioners is gonna be more moronic than the last, Jack. Just a heads up."

He chuckles darkly. "How's that going, by the way? Teaching." A short, disbelieving laugh. "You're not exactly the pedagogical type, Kayd."

"Screw you," I smirk, scrubbing a hand over the lower half of my face. "I like to think I'm at least as entertaining as Dr. Z."

We both laugh as we recall the intro developmental psych course Zabina taught us when we did our undergrad together at U of E a few years ago. Needless to say, it wasn't exactly the most engaging or inspirational. "Damn. Those poor fuckers must be bored out of their minds."

"Nah." My mind flits to the front row of my class, lingering on the image of that chestnut-haired spitfire who can't seem to stop herself from being a cheeky little brat. "I get paid to talk about sex for three hours a week, dude. I swear half the guys leave the room with a hard-on."

Sometimes, if I'm paying attention, I think I catch her squeezing her thighs together as she watches me, a crooked finger tucked gently between her lush pink lips. She'll meet my gaze with those dark, glimmering, smoky eyes of hers and I swear she's thinking about the naughtiest, filthiest things. Dirty and depraved, a complete juxtaposition to her seemingly straight-laced, straight-A, straight-and-narrow façade.

I know it's a façade.

I know she's fucking filthy on the inside and I want to peel back every disingenuously pure and innocent layer until her corruption and indecency is laid bare. Naked and spread for me.

Fuck, I'm so screwed.

"Speaking of sex," he begins. Smooth motherfucker. "You getting any?"