punch-drunk

i.

I breathe, dazed. Still punch-drunk in the aftermath. The couch allows little give as I push up and away from it unsteadily, leveling the bare shoulders of my professor as he turns away from me, silent. I'd left one too many marks on them probably -- though that could easily be dismissed by the rhythm he'd chosen -- and already I can see the beginnings of a bruise forming near the nape of his neck, the scratches fresh against the dark skin. Then they're not bare anymore, disguised by the crisp white of his button-up and stiff collar, and I find myself staring instead at the seamless silhouette of his wide back in the dim light. Shadowed. His belt clicks audibly as he secures it; the binder of unused notes that he'd brought complains a little as he gives it a quick flip-through, even though we both know we hadn't bothered to take anything out of it in the first place. Habit, I suppose. I'm wondering what I must look like to him right now, unraveled and undone in a way he'd never seen me before -- and then I'm realizing, too suddenly, that he's looking at me over his shoulder with an expression I can't recognize. Not on him, at least. But I figure that the both of us hadn't expected anything of the past hour to actually happen.

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Begins another breath before pausing again, unsure of what to say. The binder seems like it's the only thing anchoring him to the floor, keeping him from running. Not that I'd be able to chase him, anyway, but that's beside the point. I'm not sure what he's thinking. He lingers around the door, grazing the knob with his knuckles, before looking me in the eyes fully for the first time since the act.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. It's the same manner he uses to address unfamiliar or uncooperative students, and I feel a strange sense of disappointment in his choice of tone.

The door shuts quietly behind him.

ii.

We pass each other at least five times over the next few days: him hurrying to whatever meeting or lecture hall in his casual, expensive shoes, me trekking by in my similarly everyday, costly wheelchair. It's a little easier to feign normalcy this way, with both of us either too awkward or too tongue-tied to say much of anything, and that's okay. A little more than okay, actually, considering the decade-long age gap and our deathly shy demeanors. When I think about it, really analyze what had happened that night, I can't  put together the order of events logically without adding some sort of outside explanation. I'd fallen out of my chair and nearly knocked myself unconscious, for one, when I should've been on my way for tutoring in the library. Two, after I hadn't shown up at our usual table for at least thirty minutes, my professor asked someone where I was and ended up wandering around, searching. Until he figured I was in my apartment, of course. Three, he found me crumpled on the ground next to my desk, confused, and had tried to leave me on the couch and ask for help when suddenly I'd kissed him, hard, and he'd kissed me back and I was pulling him down with me and I was wondering if this was real, if this was happening, because there was no way on earth my bookish, bashful professor would ever want to --

I sigh, burying my face in my hands. I'd kissed him because I'd wanted to, because I thought I was still dreaming, and he'd kissed me back out of ... politeness? As an expected reaction? Then I'd realized that he actually was real, and when I tried to apologize he was already closing the distance between my mouth and his again, clumsy but passionate. Gentle and genuine and fervent, all at once. His knee had accidentally brushed between my thighs at that moment, I'd -- I'd actually let out a moan against his ear, and suddenly the heat building up in my chest was unbearable beyond anything I'd ever imagined, was unthinkably encompassing and warm and too, too much to ignore. I'd begged, and he stopped being gentle.

Similarly, at least five times over the next few days, I pretend that the traces of warmth against my lips and thighs are as recent as they had been the other night.

iii.

My voice almost catches in my throat when I mutter: "I wanted it, you know."

He's staring at me as if I just punched him. I might as well have. With twenty minutes of our hour-long tutoring session having passed in near total silence, it's easy enough to know what he's thinking now. He's wondering if it was a mistake, fucking a student like this in circumstances like that. He's wondering if I was completely willing or able, if I'd wanted this for a while or if it was spontaneous, if I regret anything that happened. Worrying, too, if our long-term friendship can take a blow like that without falling to pieces, or if we'd be better off never acknowledging the night ever again. The pen sits still in his hand, still bleeding onto the index card, and I swallow the rest of my hesitation before it can resurface.

"And I wanted to say thank you, too, for that. For -- for helping me, I mean." I correct myself quickly, forcing down the urge to stammer. Slide the note across the table as nonchalantly as I can. "If I ever need any assistance again, I'll text."

He grins at that, looking relieved, and the expression is so familiar that I can't help but return it. I can read him again. Are you sure? he wants to ask. Have you thought about this? Do you know what this means?

He opens his mouth to speak. I nod before he can.