I liked to watch. When my mind drifted from the work in front of me, I’d stare and observe the tufts of blond hair that grew from his pale scalp. Sometimes, if I looked long and hard enough, I could see the twinge of red in his eyebrows and the grey that coloured his sideburns and peppered his beard. His eyes drifted around the room when he spoke; not in an assertive fashion — but with purpose. His skin was pale enough that his cheeks would glow a wonderful shade of pink when he’d speak for too long. His tongue would wipe over his bottom lip and his teeth would catch the flesh for a brief moment before he’d swallow, his saliva nourishing the dryness of his throat. The room would latch onto the silence in these moments. Then, he’d continue talking. It was not often that he was rendered speechless or thoughtless. If he stopped to mull over his words, it was an invisible rumination. His face did not contort with frustration or contemplation; he spoke and let out small, intoxicating slivers of laughter that would resonate and twist inside me like a violent dagger. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch him. I wanted to feel his skin. I’d imagine its hotness and the way it wrapped around his arms and legs to conceal the muscle and bone beneath. I wanted to sink my teeth down, press my lips against his wrist, and suck out the blood so that I could taste what he was like on the inside. Sometimes I would imagine reaching inside his chest and cradling his heart in my hand just to feel it pulstate and thrum between my fingers. I wanted to live in his skin.
At my most daring, I’d wait for the classroom to become empty. Outside, beyond the artificial flicker of lights, the afternoon would kiss away all the remnants of the early morning. He’d smile at me in recognition, his eyes bracketed with the wrinkled lines of crow’s feet. They were a muted blue, not uncommon or particularly exceptional, but their passive nature did not make them any less thrilling to stare into. I was a moth drawn to a flame; his eyes like scorching embers of light that clung onto a dissipating fire. It was no wonder why I struggled to look away — a moth cannot escape its nature, and the light cannot escape what it is.
I watched his hands and admired the way his fingers weren’t too thick or too thin, instead a perfect set of bones encased in white skin with neatly trimmed nails. I’d catch glimpses of his calloused palms and the lines that etched deep into them, and thought about how they’d feel if I gripped them relentlessly — enough to watch him bruise and bleed. Here, in the space behind his desk, I could get to know him better than when he sauntered in front of the classroom with his slow gait. Here, I could smell him. He was intoxicating; burning wood and vanilla. I wanted to swallow the scent and keep it trapped inside my lungs, cocooned within the iron bars of my rib cage. Here, I could focus on the timbre of his voice and how his tongue wrapped around every syllable. I could live on his breath. In these moments, I felt the hot flush of his skin and saw the way his pale lashes fanned over his eyes as he looked down, away from my intrusive gaze. And if I really focused and tuned out the hum of his voice, I could hear his heart beating.
Thump, thump, thump, in perfect tandem with mine.
The more time I spent away from him, the more I thought about him. Our small, fleeting interactions began to plague me, and I’d replay every look he’d cast my way and every conversation we had, however brief. His lack of presence only served to make me even more inconsolable as I anticipated our next meeting. Sometimes, I’d worry that I’d forget the details of his face in between our meetings. Having to wait seven days to see him was torture.
I’d spend hours of my free time scrolling through Google searches of his name. His profile on the university’s website, his published works, professional portraits taken of his face for ID photos and award ceremonies. I searched through all his achievements and spiralled down all the way to the beginning of his postgraduate academic career. I made it as far as 2004. He would have been twenty-five, just a few years older than I am now. It felt strange peering into the facets of life he lived without me. In the darkness of my bedroom, with nothing but the light from my laptop pressed against my face, I absorbed every morsel of information I could find out about him.
Who was he outside of the classroom when nobody was looking? Who was he outside of the identity the internet had crafted for him?
I wondered about what he would occupy his time with. Did he have any hobbies outside of teaching and laughing and smiling and talking with such fervour and emotion while I thought about plucking out each of his veins so I could braid them into a necklace? How does he take his coffee? What type of music does he listen to? How fast does his heart beat when he orgasms and struggles to catch his breath? Is he married?
Surely not. He can’t be. Not with all those stormy looks and brilliant smiles he sends my way.
Unlike me, he has the perfect smile. I could tell that each individual molar and tooth had become pliant and malleable under the privilege of childhood braces. Then, I’d often wonder if his mother, like mine, was sentimental enough to keep his milk teeth stashed away in her jewellery box. I think about opening that box and resting each of the small, yellowed bones between my fingers. One by one, I would feel each individual crevice. Sometimes I’d picture them breaking off his gums, like plucking out the petals from a flower.
As I said, it’s torture to wait so long to see you. I’d like to look at you away from the prying eyes and ears of that classroom. So I found you, because I know that’s what you would’ve wanted. For someone— for me— to get to know you. Here, in the warm light of your home, you’re much more candid. In this space, only you exist. You walk around the kitchen and the living room, you cook dinner and scratch the head of your dog. I always thought you’d be a cat person, but I was wrong and that’s okay. I wonder what else I was wrong about. What else have I yet to find out?
Your backyard is getting uncomfortable. I wonder if you’ll ever give up and just let me in. Your locks are old and finicky, I think I could crack them if I tried hard enough. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I stare into the place you call home and think to myself.
Can you see me? Because I see you.
Sitting at the dining table, watching the television, eating your dinner.
This letter, it's a secret, just between the both of us. I don’t know how well you keep them, but I’ll keep all of your secrets. I’ll swallow them and let them settle deep in my marrow.
Maybe, one day you can keep mine too.
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