I have no idea if he’ll be back in the office on Wednesday, but I can’t keep waiting around, so I decide to find another way to see him.
It’s stupid, really, and half-baked. Worse, it’s borderline stalking. On top of all of that, I have to take a sick day from work, but it’ll be worth it, I think.
In the years since I graduated from Dartmouth, Professor Barclay accepted a position teaching at MIT. Because I admittedly have no life and might be slightly obsessed, I know he teaches a course on Wednesday mornings, which means I know he’ll be on campus, and I can’t resist the temptation to see him in this role again.
Just like at Dartmouth, his class is huge, housed in a lecture hall that’s filled with eager undergraduates and likely a few people like me who are sneaking in to observe the class. I blend in easily enough. It wasn’t so long ago that I was an undergraduate myself, and when the doors to the auditorium open, I slide in among the crowd and claim a seat in the back row, nestled in the far corner.
A few minutes before the class is due to start, Professor Barclay enters and unpacks his things on the small table up front. There’s no podium on the stage, only a large screen he’ll project his lecture onto. He’s dressed slightly more casually than he usually is at the office. No suit jacket, just a light blue shirt rolled up to his elbows and navy slacks. The silver face of his Patek Philippe catches the light for a moment, and a thrill ripples through me.
I know what the girls in the class must be thinking. No doubt their thoughts are as filthy as mine. I’m jealous knowing they get to sit here every week and look at him the way I used to back at Dartmouth. Well…for those few weeks before he kicked me out.
I smile down at my notebook, brought along to help me blend in.
His lecture is about engineering in ancient structures, a subject I covered extensively in graduate school. I like to think I would ace the material if given an impromptu quiz, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to take the class, merely to observe. I’d forgotten how good he is at this, how captive he keeps his audience as he stands on stage, working through slides.
I’m sad when the hour is up. I know I won’t be able to come again, not if I want to keep my position at Banks and Barclay, so to make the most of today, rather than hurry out of the room, I linger. The class starts to filter out, but just like always, a few students hang back so they can speak with Professor Barclay. I imagine what they’re talking to him about, whether they’re asking him to be their thesis adviser or inquiring about one-on-one meetings, career advice, anything to gain a morsel of his attention. A pretty girl in a red dress smiles up at him like he’s the second coming of Christ, and rather than feel jealousy, there’s only pity. Iamher.
Students stay close as he starts to gather his things. He’s polite, entertaining their questions as he grabs his leather case and starts to make his way up the aisle closest to me, and suddenly I feel like a sitting duck.
I assumed he’d leave through the side door, just as he entered.
If I stand and leave now, he’ll see me, so I hunch over and look down at my phone, waiting for him to walk past, until I realize he’s stopped at the end of my row, blocking my exit.