Read Online Frog by Stephen Dixon - Free Book Online Page B

causes. But those are my students where I teach. When I’ve time to digress, which I haven’t with every student here. You all probably don’t mind the fifteen minutes with me, but that’s all we’ve got. So, your paper. I don’t know why I went into all of that, do you?” She shakes her head, holds back a giggle. “Funny, right? But you can see how it’s possible for me to run on with my students. As for your paper, I’ve nothing but admiration for it. I’m not usually that reserved or so totally complimentary, but here, well—no corrections. Not even grammatical or punctuational ones. Even the dashes are typed right and everything’s before or after the quote marks where it belongs. Honestly, nothing to nitpick, even. I just wish I had had your astuteness—facility—you know, to create such clear succinct premises and then to get right into it and with such writing and literary know-how and ease; had had your skills, intelligence and instincts when I was your age, I mean. Would have saved a lot of catching up later on. Sure, we could go on for an hour about what you proposed in this and how you supported what you claimed, and so on. Let me just say that when I come across a student like you I just say ‘Hands off; you’re doing great without me so continue doing what you are on your own. If I see mistakes or anything I can add or direct you to, to possibly improve your work, I’ll let you know.’ And with someone like you I also say, which isn’t so typical for me, ‘If you see something you want to suggest about my work, or correct: be my guest.’ In other words, I can only give you encouragement and treat you as my thinking equal and say ‘More, more.’ But your paper’s perfect for what it is, which is a lot, and enlightened me on the subject enormously. But a subject which, if I didn’t know anything about it before, I’d be very grateful to you after I read it for opening me up to it. You made it interesting and intriguing. What better way, right? Enough, I’ve said too much, not that I think compliments would turn you.”
    He looks away. She says something but he doesn’t catch it. Something like “I’m no different than anyone else.” He actually feels his heart pounding, mouth’s parched, fingers feel funny. Looks at her. She’s looking at him so seriously, fist holding up her chin, trying to make him out? Thinks he’s being too obvious? “I’m sorry, you said something just now?” he says. “Oh, nothing. Silly. Commonplace. I also tend to mumble.” “But what?” “That I can be turned too, that’s all.” Smiles, big beautiful bright teeth, cute nose. Button pinned to her jacket, children in flames, caption in Chinese or Japanese. Or Korean or Vietnamese. What does he know? And turned how? That an oblique invitation? He once read a novel where the literature teacher took his student on the office floor. She willingly participated. In fact, she might have come to his office to make love. It was their first time. The teacher was married. He always thought that scene exaggerated—the author usually exaggerated or got sloppy when he wrote about sex—but the feeling the narrator had is the same he has now. Her brains, looks, body, little knapsack. He’d love right now to hold her, kiss her, undress her right here—hell with his friend. Hell with the rest of the students. They’d do it quickly. She’d understand. Even if it was their first time. He doubts it’d take him two minutes. Another minute for them both to undress. He bets she likes that kind of spontaneity. “I have got to make love to you,” he could whisper. “Let’s do it right now.” He’d lock the door if it has a lock from the inside—he looks. Hasn’t and he doesn’t have the key. Now this would be something: