I asked her if she would have a cup of coffee with me. God, what was I thinking? She was a lawyer, at least 10 years my senior, though she could easily pass for a 20 year-old. I was her student. I forgot to mention that she was my law professor. It wasn’t a big class, around twenty to thirty people, eager law students I should say. We thought we were smart, studying law and all. But we were the average kid in our early twenties and we were making our parents happy by becoming lawyers or doctors or engineers or god knows what else.
Let me get back to Professor Lance. She was gorgeous; by all means the most beautiful face I’d ever set eyes on. And that’s pure fact. You could take a survey and everyone in the class would have agreed that she was absolutely stunning. Her face had tiny freckles; her eyes were green, very mysterious. She had gorgeous red hair that matched her red, luscious lips. But you see, she was my professor, totally out of limits, out of reach, just an impossibility. I couldn’t let her go though. In class, I’d stare at her, at her eyes, her beautiful mouth, with those perfect white teeth, at her smooth, long legs. Sometimes I’d tune her out completely so I could concentrate on watching her figure move. God, she was intoxicating, and I desperately wanted her. I was Adam and I wanted the forbidden fruit no matter what.
It was early October, a cloudy day, not a typical day to ask someone out. Professor Lance and I now officially knew each other for three months. I’d waited three months to gather my courage, to understand Professor Lance and her habits, her handwriting, her talk, her laugh. She liked to go for a smoke after class; I’d join sometimes. She never minded. In fact, she’d tell me things to pass the time and disallow for any awkwardness that my presence might have brought. She was very random; she would say something out of the blue like how her father died two years ago in a car accident in Boston. I could never follow her line of thought but I passionately enjoyed every moment that I was with her. She was so close to me. We’d stand shoulder to shoulder, and I could smell her Channel perfume, and I’d inhale the smoke from her cigarette. Then, I’d feel myself rising up, like I had no control over my body, like I was a balloon. Being around her made me feel high, and I wanted to melt and dissolve and become her cigarette, her perfume, reaching into her skin, her red curls…
“Professor Lance? How’d you like to grab a cup of coffee down at Lisa’s Café?” I asked when we went to our usual corner for a smoke. She was quiet that day, like she had no energy to speak. Her hair wasn’t combed and her eyes were sleepy. She had no make up on, but looked more beautiful than ever.
“Not today Mike. I’m not myself today. I need to smoke,” she said, avoiding my eyes. Her eyes were set on her damn lighter; she was trying to light her cigarette.
I said nothing. I didn’t even feel like smoking anymore. So I left her there, smoking alone. Who knows what was wrong with her. Hell, I didn’t know, and I’m not even sure I’d ever want to know.