Over the next few weeks, tutoring Sarah becomes a special kind of torture. I don't know what's worse–sitting across a desk from her, breathing in her daisy-fresh scent and watching her lick cappuccino foam off her top lip, or lounging in the back of lecture halls and scanning the rows for her short platinum blonde hair.
She's always so far away in those lectures. The ones that she manages to attend between jobs, anyway. There are rows and rows of bodies between us, and I have to crane my neck to see what kind of brightly colored outfit she's draped her perfect, plump body in this time.
Hey. It's not like I need to really listen–I'm here to assist, not learn.
I'm learning some things, though. Like how a lot of guys rush to sit next to Sarah. Guess I can't blame them–I'd be the same if I
