Member-only story
The Spanish Teacher
Please, teach me your Romance language…
I wasn’t expecting you to be teaching my Spanish class.
Que guapo eres, profesor, was my first thought.
Not much had changed on that front. You had the same perfectly groomed locks of burnt golden hair, the same taut pink lips, and the same hard, impenetrable gaze as I remembered. At times you had reminded me of a preening swan, at others a graceful lion. You were poised, tense, and defiantly attractive.
When you began to speak, I recognized your voice just as well. It was deep and cynical, with an ever-so-slight, unplaceable accent. I felt comforted by your familiar mystery, even as you avoided looking in my direction as much as you could.
The whole two hours of your lesson, I forced myself to keep my eyes on the blackboard and dutifully copied down everything you said into my notebook. That wasn’t like me. Only the threat of admonishment from someone like you could bring out my studious streak.
I had known since our first chance encounter that you had grown up speaking the language — among others. You were a global kind of man, with conflicting loyalties and irons in many fires. Somehow you’d ended up here, where people were known to be reasonable, fair-minded, and sorely lacking in festivities. English was now the…
