History Lessons

As far as she could tell, men in academia fell into two categories: They either went for someone so closely aligned to their own research that the couple became the disciplinary equivalent of siblings, or they chose to marry women with the intellectual aspirations of a house cat.

He didn't look at her, instead keeping his gaze on the piles of books still waiting to be returned to their shelves. "Which one do you want to borrow?" she asked him after another moment's silence. He carefully picked up a copy of Marie NDiaye's Trois femmes puissantes. Long fingers traced the black swirls of letters against the yellowed paper of an open page. "All of them.

...Daphne willed herself to take a few steady breaths like a normal human. But he smelled nice and his skin looked soft and clear and he sat so comfortably at this seat in front of his computer as if he really was built to conduct archival queries online. Would it be weird if she told him he was a naturally good sitter? Oh God, Daphne, what kind of a thought even is that?

His long limbs propelled his body in Daphne's direction and she willed her knees not to buckle like a fainting Victorian heiress.... His smile almost took her out. Daphne tried to remember how humans breathed air -- inhale, exhale.

Some Wall Street bro in a slim suit was trying to talk up Elise, making the kind of googly eyes that would have sent even Cupid running for a trash can to vomit in...

What's going on with you? You're moping more than you did when Latrice Royale got kicked off Drag Race.

Daphne stared, panting, into the sunlight beaming through the room's floor-to-ceiling windows. Relief filler her lungs. Long fingers curled around her shoulder. She screamed.

Olivia was her problem student this term, a graduating senior who was so checked out she could give an overdue library book a run for its money.

The #deerlivesmatter signs from protestors had caused Daphne's eyes to become temporarily glued to her brain, they had rolled so far back in her skull.

...I bumped into this guy outside the dean's office today. But I don't even know anything about him." Just that I want to climb him like a tree, she added silently.

He took a seat across from her and she went to peer over his shoulder. While he typed away, he blew a shaft of brown hair off his forehead, and Daphne willed herself to take a few steady breaths like a normal human. But he smelled nice and his skin looked soft and clear and he sat so comfortably at his seat in front of his computer as if he really was built to conduct archival queries online. Would it be weird if she told him he was a naturally good sitter? Oh God, Daphne, what kind of a thought even is that?