College Professor Office Hours

Senior year. Thesis on desire in modern lit. Dr. Keane—sharp, married, careful.

Office hours became weekly. Arguments about texts became arguments about subtext.

"Your skirt is distracting," he said once, then apologized immediately. "Forget I said that."

I didn't forget.

Last week of semester, door closed, blinds half down. He said, "If we do this, you graduate first."

"I graduate Friday."

"Then Friday."

We waited until Friday at 6 p.m. His office empty, campus quiet. Not heroic. Not justified. Just chosen.

After, he graded my thesis without bias—I checked the comments, fair, brutal, professional.

I graduated. He sent a generic congratulations email.

I see him cited in articles sometimes. I feel twenty-two in my throat.

College stories age into cautionary tales or nostalgia depending on who survived them.

I survived. I don't romanticize.

Power is attractive until you have it, then you understand why rules exist—for the person who doesn't yet.