Letters

The college student–a senior on the edge of no return–keeps the letter in her copy of Wings of a Dove. It has been there for days, a dark cloud obscuring her otherwise sun-drenched future. She wills herself to think of other things. Like her literature professor. He’s certainly distracting, although it’s such a stupid cliché.

Still, she can’t help admiring the intelligence and authority in his voice, the dark curls kissing his chin, the trim lines that promise a taut, well cared for body. He’s saying something profound about Henry James’ attitudes towards women, she’s sure of it, but his words are deflected by the fizzy, lusty feelings that are pulling her mood towards a simple, animal happiness.

She smiles and pulls out her compact, checking her lipstick. It’s the only makeup she wears, and she prefers a deep red, verging on burgundy. It takes her a moment to realize the students around her are gathering their things and moving towards the exits. The professor himself is waving casual goodbyes and making light chatter with his pupils as they file out.

The student sits as if frozen, making no move to load up her backpack. Her sexual bucket list is long and varied and largely intact. She’s never seduced anyone before. She watches the professor settle himself at the ancient wooden desk–the hall must be vacant for a while–and she lightly strokes the envelope peeking out from her homework assignment. It’s time, she decides.

The walk to his desk feels long and forbidding. It weakens her resolve. I bet he’s worried about a lawsuit. Or maybe pining after his ex-wife, the glamorous Egyptologist. Still, her feet keep moving forward, one after the other, and she hopes her nerves give her an enticingly wobbly gait.

When she reaches his desk and he regards her with a wary, guarded expression–she’s always been a competent but indifferent student–she can’t quite decipher. She has no idea what to say, so she does the only thing that comes to mind. She circles his desk; he watches her intently. She pretends to fall and allows gravity to pull her into his arms. As she fumbles, ostensibly to right herself, her lips find his.

After a moment of hesitation, he surrenders to her kiss and returns it two-fold, his tongue probing her mouth as if he were searching it for meaning. His beard is scratchy on her cheeks and neck–a strange, absorbing sensation she’s never experienced before–and she barely notices as he backs into a padded chair and pulls her onto him.

His hands travel under her long white T-shirt and roughly shift her bra, exposing her young, firm breasts. He holds them gently in his hands for a moment, taking in their size and weight.

“Peaches,” he murmurs before tweaking her nipples with one hand and unfastening his pants with the other. He pushes up her skirt and frowns with disappointment. “Take off your leggings,” he commands.

She shimmies out of her leggings and glances towards the door to the hall, which is still ajar. She marvels at the extreme risk they are taking, especially him. She straddles him, planting her feet firmly on the floor, and slides onto his erection, which pokes through the opening in his jeans.

She reaches under her T-shirt and rubs her **** as she rises and falls, sending electric pulses of desire through her core. They quickly find a rhythm that brings them to a wrenching, silent climax.

***

It’s late afternoon, and the bar is practically deserted. She takes a generous swallow of bitter ale and reads the letter one more time. Positive for multiple oncogenic alleles. Calculated lifetime risk of ****** or ovarian cancer is 92%. Consider counseling for prophylactic mastectomy and oophorectomy.

She is planning to freeze her eggs and get the surgery. She wants to live a long, useful life. But she also knows that premature menopause can do terrible things to a person’s sex drive. It might never be the same again.

The bartender is tall with long, dirty blond curls and a roguish glint in his eye. She stuffs the letter in her bag and smiles

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