Aphrodite’s Curse
Ryan Collins
Slowly turning her head with that more than casual glance—she gives him the silent knowing, holds the look of an eternal second, lighting a fire within.
The instructor continues on, ignorant and blissful in his speech.
“English is a discipline. Don’t get into English because you enjoy reading. Writing is the key to putting bread on the table in this profession!”
She doesn’t hear a word, finding humanities quick and sudden.
Her lovers close to her, with descriptions lost in translation from feeling, finding no words to describe. Her lover knows all those old stories, but this one won’t be like those, ending in Aphrodite’s curse of ever-fleeting love. He knows those stories, how that’s coming, but not now.
She wants him right now; it’s hard to hold back. Desire held in check by measured reasoned and morality yet to learn.
“Be patient in your writing style. Never be in a hurry,” the instructor says condescendingly. “It’ll always be as if you’ve had nothing, but all the time in the world.”
She looks at him sitting behind her. Her passion uncontrollable this time, meaning comprehended by the man in which she confides. Her independence melted away with the assurance of trust. He sees her, the look of vulnerability hidden away from the world that conjured it.
Her lover gets up and walks out the door. The Professor pauses in his attempt to oooh—and—ahhh his mesmerized students.
She’s on the edge of her seat, passion melting away reluctance. Constricted by freedom, she mumbles to herself…fuck it!
The Professor taken off again by this affair asks, “did you have a question young lady?”
“No sir, but I have an answer!”
