Paradoxum

Paradoxum

Professor O'Conner took a much-needed moment to relax as the last students wafted out of the classroom. The amount of stress that was earned from teaching a college lesson to a hundred students seemed to fade down the hall with the students' voices.
Taking a deep, sighing breath, O'Conner leaned back in his chair and propped up his legs. It had all had the tell-tale signs of a professor's desk; thick books and papers stacked high, pens and pencils both on the desk in and in the various containers designed to hold them, nearly empty coffee cups, all manner of scratches, dings, chipped paint decorated the piece of furniture.
Life had eased up for William O'Conner in the past decade or so. He missed the old times, when his youth kept him in the fast lane of life. He'd mellowed with age, he realized, as he grinned back at old memories of how he used to be; brash, somewhat conceded and with a slight holier-than-thou attitude. He was undoubtedly intelligent for his age, back then, but it cost him his humility.

After all, He recalled, clever people neither recognize nor accept anything but cleverness.

Those were foolish days, he thought, full of foolish desires and foolish presumptions. None of his old, childish theories of intelligence, war, and politics seemed important anymore. He had no beliefs back then, just logical and impressive answers to other peoples' questions. With age came humility, and with humility came wisdom.
Only when Tristan came through the door did O'Conner realize that his eyes had been shut. He was probably on the verge of taking a nap just then.
"Good evening, Mr. Walsh," Professor William O'Conner said warmly with a small grin, lowering his propped up feet to the ground. Attributable to the quality-improving age of an acoustic, the professor's voice had taken on the beautiful tone of a resonating cello string. Along with his proper English, half-circle spectacles and his seemingly natural air of charisma, the professor had a knack for getting people to like him (And, before long, respect him as well) with a simple 'Good Evening.'
Tristan wore a wry, dashing grin in return. Any person who looked closely enough could determine from a first impression that the boy had an equal talent for charisma, "Hello, Professor." He set his stack of text books on the desk and slipped a paper out of his backpack, "Here's my report."
"Finally done, I see." He murmured, lowering his eyeglasses to the edge of his nose in order to read the paper.
"I got it done as quickly as possible. I had to skip one of my piano lessons to finish it." He whined with a smile.

"Oh yes! What sacrifice." He said in mock astonishment, still sizing up the paper. Tristan frowned, "How's that grandmother of yours?"

Tristan sighed, "She's been through hell, definitely, but the doctors say she's on her way to a good recovery."

The professor suddenly lifted his eyes and gave Tristan an astonished look, "Oh really? Must've been some miracle, that."

"Yeah, it was."

"Especially considering you told me she died." He grinned.

Tristan's face paled a little but managed to fake a confused look, "Are you sure?"

(This chapter is unfinished)