I settle into the first paper, immediately irritated because the student doesn’t seem to have a thesis. I let out a deep sigh. It’s going to be a long afternoon. She also doesn’t cite any of her quotes. The next paper’s argument is so convoluted that I’m almost impressed with the fact that the student has managed to appear sane in class so far. Paper three has no argument whatsoever and not a single grammatically correct sentence. I sigh again and rub my eyes. Grading always requires waging a mental battle against my temper.
Rex looks up from his drawing and quirks a brow at me in question.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Grading always infuriates me. It’s like my students don’t listen to what I say at all. I mean, we go over thesis statements in class and I give them a handout about how to tell if a thesis is strong or not. Then they write these papers and they’re just nonsense. I mean, actual nonsense. They aren’t making an argument, they don’t connect any of their ideas, and half the time I can’t even tell if they’ve read the book they’re writing about. It drives me fucking nuts. Listen to this. ‘I will argue that the way Bartleby doesn’t want to do anything proves that he’s politically opposed to doing anything.’ What!”
Rex clears his throat.
“You make it sound like they do badly just to piss you off.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t seem to be joking.
“You know, it’s not really that easy for everyone,” he continues. He’s trying to sound casual, but I can tell he means it. “Sometimes people aren’t good at things.”
“I know that. But it’s like they’re not even trying—” I start to explain.
“You don’t know that,” he says. “Maybe they’re trying their best and they’re just not as smart as you. Or they’re good at math but not your class.”
Of course I know he’s right. At every moment other than when I’m grading, I know that.
“You’re right,” I say. “I guess it just makes me feel like I’m wasting my time trying to teach them shit sometimes. Like they don’t care about it anyway, so why do I spend all my time trying to make them?”
“Well,” he says after a pause, “that sounds like a bigger question.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. I don’t really want to think about it right now. Sorry, I’m just so fucking glad it’s the weekend. I’ll just finish this.”
Rex doesn’t say anything. His shoulders are tense and his jaw clenched. He must think I’m such a pretentious ass right now. Really, it’s never a good idea to grade while anyone else is watching.
“Hey, can we put on some music?” I ask. “It’s so quiet in here I can’t think.”
Rex points to the cabinet next to the television.
“Put on whatever you want,” he says.
“Yeah, sorry, I just, I’m so used to working in coffee shops or at the bar that I guess I’ve, like, trained myself to associate noise with concentration. I can just put my headphones on if you want.”
“No, it’s fine,” Rex says. “Do you miss the city a lot, then?” He’s looking at his drawing and fiddling with his pencil.
“Yeah,” I say, standing before the cabinet and tracing the wood grain with my finger. “Did you make this?” He nods. “You’re so talented.” Rex smiles.
Wow, he has a lot of stuff I’ve never heard of. He has almost all records, but he definitely doesn’t strike me as the sort of neo-vinyl fan who buys new records but never touched a turntable until college. Some of these are moldy.
“Who’s Blossom Dearie?”
“She was a jazz singer. Mostly in the fifties and sixties. Recorded a lot of standards.”
I put the record on. There’s a scritch of static and then a light voice fills the room.
“Were these your mother’s records?”
Rex’s head jerks up.
“Yeah.”
“I like it,” I say, and go back to grading.
By the time I’m finished, I’ve gone through three more records, my comment-writing hand is cramping, my shoulders are tight, and I’ve decided that Rex is an incredibly distracting work buddy. Every time I look up from a paper, there he is, his sensual mouth tightened in concentration and the tiny line between his eyebrows reminding me of how he looked when he was inside me.
“Oh, thank god,” I say finally, my forehead resting on the stack of graded papers. “I need a drink.”
AFTER WE take Marilyn for a walk, Rex makes omelets for dinner.
“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” I ask, putting my plate in the sink.
Rex shakes his head.
“Do you want me to go so you can… do whatever?”
Rex shakes his head again, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. He stands up and holds out a hand to me.
In his bedroom, Rex pulls me close, running his hands up and down my back.