Nineteen-year-old Namora Mursings has fallen in love with her married teacher, Mr. Vincent Williams. Knowing the consequences of her infatuation, she still decides to pursue him.
Vincent takes her for a troubled girl still on an identity quest and w...
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It's only for a moment, but I feel my heart crumbling into a million pieces as I lethargicly take hold of his veiny, attractive hand, breathless for both our proximity and the harsh, harsh truth that I've just discovered.
Here he is, a married man, and I'm lusting after him. Things can't be any more fúcked up.
"I find it hard to believe that a person as clumsy as you also has brains," Mr. Williams tells me frankly, bringing me out of my dilemma.
I inhale shakily, locking my hands behind my back. He's so mean to me and it hurts.
"I'm sorry if I'm such a bother, I'll go now," I squeak out, trying to hold the tears back as I face the floor. I can't deal with this shít right now. I've always been sensitive to disapproval, and this situation isn't excluded. Especially not, coming from the person I like.
Namora, stop. He's a married man.
"Please don't feel bad," he says monotonously, "it's a force of habit."
"Well, I'm sorry for feeling bad about your force of habit." Where did the spitefulness come from?
"I only intended to ask you if you've read Romeo and Juliet before, because you seem to know a lot about it," he continues, practically ignoring what I said.
I rub my eyes before I look up at him to bark out an answer. Our proximity throws me off balance when I realize how close we really are, and I would've almost fallen if it weren't for the teacher's desk next to me to support my trembling legs.
"Uh... I'm an avid reader, and an even bigger fan of classic literature, so I've read quite a few of Shakespeare's books," I say, a bit offended he ignored me, and a bit anxious for his reply.
To be honest, I still can't believe I'm having an actual conversation with the man I was fantasizing about only a few moments before.
He raises his eyebrows as he analyzes my response, "I see. That sounds like a boring way to occupy your time."
I gape at him.
He moves towards the desk and picks up a book, turning to look back at me with thinned lips.
"You can go now," he concludes, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
The nerve of this man. My heart simply can't take this treatment.
"Excuse me, haven't you read Shakespeare's other books?" I ask him, half in an effort to keep the conversation going, half in an effort to spite him the way he's spiting me.
He halts the motion of his hands, before he moves to take a seat behind the teacher's desk, "it's break time, Namora. You should go eat with your friends, if you have any." He says, as if to change the subject.
"Mr. Williams, I have no friends."
He inhales tiredly, clasping his hands together not soon after. His blue eyes look up in an effort to analyse me.
"That was expected." Ouch.
"Why aren't you answering my question?"
"I don't think it's necessary."
"Well, I'd like to think it's necessary. I only want know whether or not my teacher has read other books written by Shakespeare. There's nothing wrong in that."
"It's none of your business whe-"
"Or maybe you haven't read the other books by Shalespeare and you're trying to take my attention away from the question because you don't wish your student to know that you haven't read-"
"Alright, alright! Please, you insolent girl," Mr. Williams sighs, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation.
Ouch, ouch, ouch! Insolent girl.
I think I'm going to have to lock myself in the toilet and cry after this.
"God, why are you so difficult?"
I cast him a watery grin, shrugging as I whisper, "I only want to know a bit about you, is all."
Is it really worth the effort?
"I'm not your friend."
"I'd like to think you are," I whisper again, looking out the window at the cloudy weather. Is it going to rain?
Feeling Mr. William's electrifying glare studying me as I stare at the sky, I anxiously await his reply with bated breath. I send a silent prayer to God that he hasn't seen my teary expression.
"Well, since you so persistently insist..." A watery smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I realize he's yielding, "I've read The Tempest, Much Ado About Nothing, The Merchant of Venice, and a few oth-"
"In soothe, I know not why I'm so sad," I begin, turning away from the window. Finally gaining the courage to let my brown eyes lock with his blue ones.
He isn't opening up. I see the way his steely blue eyes scan over me with weariness. I know I can't crack him, but the least I can do is show him I'm not an enemy as a start.
"It wearies me, you say it wearies you," he continues, and I feel my heart hurting and bleeding in silence.
He knows, God, he knows; he's perfect.
"But how I caught it, found it, or came by it," I trail off, unable to control the big smile on my face. The joy I was feeling at the moment was too strong to mask.
"What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born," he rolls his eyes at my expression, shaking his head.
"I am to learn," in unison we end the first sentence of the play, his eyes trained on me as mine are on him.
I feel as if I'm drowning in the waters of uncertainty as each second trickles by, as my melting brown eyes mold against his stormy blue orbs.
It seems as if it were an eternity, but I know for a fact that it was only for a few moments, that my eyes were locked with his. It isn't hard to tell; the fact that I'm falling into his deepest blues, and I would give anything to let him corrupt my sorry hues.
"Wow," I say, breathless, but Mr. Williams only stares up at me, his face expressionless.
How I wish I could decipher what he was thinking about right at that moment. How I can kill for it.
But the moment is broken when he clears his throat.
"I think it's time for you to leave, Namora. You got your answer." Ah, so he's now changing the subject indirectly?
I smile, trying to control myself as I move away from the teacher's desk.
"I would have stayed till I had made you merry." But I fail, as usual.
"Fie, fie, get out." He mutters back, taking his pen in hand before jotting down something on a piece of paper.
My heart warms to think he'd still answered albeit pushing me away, and so I can't help myself from adding, "I look forward to our next class, Mr. Williams."
And then I run off, partially because I'm scared of his reaction, and partially because I know that if I'd stayed any longer I might have jumped him.
The best part of it is, I think I've made a place for myself in his good books.
But the sad part of it is, he's a married man.
And the worst part of it is, I don't feel bad about it at all.
