I wore the skirt.
No tights. The air in the lecture hall touched my bare thighs every time I shifted, and I spent the whole last class like that: quiet Dove in the second row, notes in front of me, nothing useful on the page. Professor Damien Hale taught as if he had not told me to stay. As if he had not quoted my own filth back to me in the dark. As if there was not a video of my dripping cunt sitting in his phone.
I hated him for the calm.
I was soaked before he dismissed anyone.
“That will be all.” Chairs scraped. Laughter in the doorway. Someone asked him a question about the midterm and he answered it like a decent man. I stayed in my seat until the room emptied, the way a good girl stays when she has been told to.
The last student left.
He did not look at me until the door shut
