FIC: She's a Femme Fatale
Written for the CWC, Challenge 3
Challenge prompts: Romance/computer lab/glowstick
Synopsis: All he wished for was a spark of brilliance from one of his students. She had him at Chomsky
“Here she comes, you better watch your step
She’s going to break your heart in two, it’s true
[…]She builds you up to just put you down, what a clown”
-The Velvet Underground
He weaved around the intricate maze of computer desks in the writing lab, hands gesticulating wildly, mouth running a mile a minute with his usual spiel on The Truth and a journalist’s obligation to it. The students followed him with their gazes but he could tell they were not engaged in the discussion. He thought he saw something akin to condescension painted on their faces. He wondered how many were sneakily Twittering in that very moment. He thought he heard the clacking of typing keys.
He’d been waiting for a college journalism revival close to twenty years. Every year he’d say to himself, ‘This is the year; I can feel it’. His hopes inevitably foundered every time; all everybody was interested in was celebrity gossip. Just one spark of brilliance; that’s all he wanted.
“What I’d like,” he went on, “is if we could develop a democratic class dynamic. I’m just a mediator; you guys will be running the class. We can-”
“‘If schools were, in reality, democratic’,” a female voice interrupted, “‘there would be no need to bombard students with platitudes about democracy. They would simply act and behave democratically. The more there is a need to talk about the ideals of democracy, the less democratic the system usually is’.” [1]
He turned around to face her. She looked like the love child of a hippie and a raver-she wore glow in the dark, plastic jewelry and flowers in her hair. She had the impudence to smirk at him. In the periphery of his sight-and his hearing-he could see (and hear) that the other students were reacting. But it was as if his senses had tunneled and she was all he could accurately perceive. He knew her insolence should’ve offended him. Instead he felt an electrifying jolt of something he could not yet identify.
§
He knew he should’ve at least waited until he had writing samples from the class before he did what he’d done. But it had been so easy to stop her before she exited the lab and extend the invitation.
“I’m directing a new project. It’s an online magazine, completely run by students from the school. We’re looking for new contributors. You should stop by. We meet Wednesday afternoons, right here in the lab.”
He had tried to be nonchalant but the look on her face told him he’d failed. He had expected her to act with awe and gratitude but instead she had smirked at him in a way that suggested she knew he’d ask her before he did. And that she knew the reason why he did.
§
If people noticed the way he pressed himself against her back while reading the computer monitor over her shoulder, or the way he whispered his comments into her ear, they didn’t say anything.
She’d received his advances but she’d yet to initiate any herself. He thought perhaps she was just humoring him. Or amusing herself. But the way she caressed his beard one night after a meeting had him vacillating.
He kissed her impulsively after she’d pressed her breasts against his chest while trying to maneuver out of the row of computer desks. As she moved her head to better return his caress, he thought he felt her smirk against his mouth.
It was hours later that it occurred to him to wonder whether anyone had seen them.
§
He had wanted to see her spread out on his former marital bed the first time they fucked. Or at least be able to run his hands through her unclothed body. What happened was a hurried-yet torrid-encounter on top of his desk in the lab. He couldn’t get the picture out of his head: her sitting on it, legs parted, mouth slack in defiant exultation. The juvenile, glow-in-the-dark necklace clashed horribly with her evident, grown-up desire.
§
She had never said words of love, or even affection. She wouldn’t see him outside of the university either (although he’d convinced her to move their encounters to the privacy of his office). She had made it very clear that he had no claim on her. He’d done a good job of telling this to himself every day. So why was he suddenly overcome with the desire to hit that pompous bastard and mark his territory?
But then she smiled at him from underneath her lashes (and, oh god it was that smile, he could still hear her say ‘I’m thinking about you inside me’) and he felt the fight disintegrate to nothing within him.
He resolved to pretend he couldn’t see how the new guy took her hands in his and played around with her glow-in-the-dark bracelets; or the fact that she’d moved her chair closer to his; or that their hands were laced as they exited the writing lab. As long as she kept coming back to him, he could fucking grin and bear it. (Yes, sir. Definitely. Who the hell was he fooling?)
[1] Noam Chomsky
Challenge prompts: Romance/computer lab/glowstick
Synopsis: All he wished for was a spark of brilliance from one of his students. She had him at Chomsky
“Here she comes, you better watch your step
She’s going to break your heart in two, it’s true
[…]She builds you up to just put you down, what a clown”
-The Velvet Underground
He weaved around the intricate maze of computer desks in the writing lab, hands gesticulating wildly, mouth running a mile a minute with his usual spiel on The Truth and a journalist’s obligation to it. The students followed him with their gazes but he could tell they were not engaged in the discussion. He thought he saw something akin to condescension painted on their faces. He wondered how many were sneakily Twittering in that very moment. He thought he heard the clacking of typing keys.
He’d been waiting for a college journalism revival close to twenty years. Every year he’d say to himself, ‘This is the year; I can feel it’. His hopes inevitably foundered every time; all everybody was interested in was celebrity gossip. Just one spark of brilliance; that’s all he wanted.
“What I’d like,” he went on, “is if we could develop a democratic class dynamic. I’m just a mediator; you guys will be running the class. We can-”
“‘If schools were, in reality, democratic’,” a female voice interrupted, “‘there would be no need to bombard students with platitudes about democracy. They would simply act and behave democratically. The more there is a need to talk about the ideals of democracy, the less democratic the system usually is’.” [1]
He turned around to face her. She looked like the love child of a hippie and a raver-she wore glow in the dark, plastic jewelry and flowers in her hair. She had the impudence to smirk at him. In the periphery of his sight-and his hearing-he could see (and hear) that the other students were reacting. But it was as if his senses had tunneled and she was all he could accurately perceive. He knew her insolence should’ve offended him. Instead he felt an electrifying jolt of something he could not yet identify.
§
He knew he should’ve at least waited until he had writing samples from the class before he did what he’d done. But it had been so easy to stop her before she exited the lab and extend the invitation.
“I’m directing a new project. It’s an online magazine, completely run by students from the school. We’re looking for new contributors. You should stop by. We meet Wednesday afternoons, right here in the lab.”
He had tried to be nonchalant but the look on her face told him he’d failed. He had expected her to act with awe and gratitude but instead she had smirked at him in a way that suggested she knew he’d ask her before he did. And that she knew the reason why he did.
§
If people noticed the way he pressed himself against her back while reading the computer monitor over her shoulder, or the way he whispered his comments into her ear, they didn’t say anything.
She’d received his advances but she’d yet to initiate any herself. He thought perhaps she was just humoring him. Or amusing herself. But the way she caressed his beard one night after a meeting had him vacillating.
He kissed her impulsively after she’d pressed her breasts against his chest while trying to maneuver out of the row of computer desks. As she moved her head to better return his caress, he thought he felt her smirk against his mouth.
It was hours later that it occurred to him to wonder whether anyone had seen them.
§
He had wanted to see her spread out on his former marital bed the first time they fucked. Or at least be able to run his hands through her unclothed body. What happened was a hurried-yet torrid-encounter on top of his desk in the lab. He couldn’t get the picture out of his head: her sitting on it, legs parted, mouth slack in defiant exultation. The juvenile, glow-in-the-dark necklace clashed horribly with her evident, grown-up desire.
§
She had never said words of love, or even affection. She wouldn’t see him outside of the university either (although he’d convinced her to move their encounters to the privacy of his office). She had made it very clear that he had no claim on her. He’d done a good job of telling this to himself every day. So why was he suddenly overcome with the desire to hit that pompous bastard and mark his territory?
But then she smiled at him from underneath her lashes (and, oh god it was that smile, he could still hear her say ‘I’m thinking about you inside me’) and he felt the fight disintegrate to nothing within him.
He resolved to pretend he couldn’t see how the new guy took her hands in his and played around with her glow-in-the-dark bracelets; or the fact that she’d moved her chair closer to his; or that their hands were laced as they exited the writing lab. As long as she kept coming back to him, he could fucking grin and bear it. (Yes, sir. Definitely. Who the hell was he fooling?)
[1] Noam Chomsky