Flying
huit
The truth of the matter was and is that I knew Kenneth liked me from the first day I met him. It was freshman year, the first day of geometry class. He seated me right in the front of the class, facing his desk. A seat that proved to be so close to him that when he sat there and graded his papers, I could smell his cologne, which for the record was a peppery mix of cinnamon and sandalwood.
He wrote his name “Mr. Carson” on the blackboard in long, jagged letters of crumbly white chalk, no doubt left behind from the previous year. He told the class that he had been teaching math at Eastfield High School for three years. In an effort to form a connection with his (much younger) students, he told us he was unmarried; owned a black Labrador; and liked sci fi movies, pineapple pizza, and the color red. (To be honest I hate sci-fi and pineapple pizza. I fancy myself a cat person and the color red reminds me of blood. So perhaps our relationship was doomed before it even started.) He wiped his chalky hand on his black slacks, leaving behind a stark white handprint. He passed out books, syllabuses, and practice math worksheets to gage the level of the class. He ran his hand through, what seemed at the time to be a lush collective of light brown hair, the color of perfectly done toast.
All the while, through all of this, the whole class period, he kept looking at me. Not so much staring, as stealing glances. I caught his eye a few times and he flashed what I thought was the most mind-numbingly dazzling smile. It was all downhill from there.
He wrote his name “Mr. Carson” on the blackboard in long, jagged letters of crumbly white chalk, no doubt left behind from the previous year. He told the class that he had been teaching math at Eastfield High School for three years. In an effort to form a connection with his (much younger) students, he told us he was unmarried; owned a black Labrador; and liked sci fi movies, pineapple pizza, and the color red. (To be honest I hate sci-fi and pineapple pizza. I fancy myself a cat person and the color red reminds me of blood. So perhaps our relationship was doomed before it even started.) He wiped his chalky hand on his black slacks, leaving behind a stark white handprint. He passed out books, syllabuses, and practice math worksheets to gage the level of the class. He ran his hand through, what seemed at the time to be a lush collective of light brown hair, the color of perfectly done toast.
All the while, through all of this, the whole class period, he kept looking at me. Not so much staring, as stealing glances. I caught his eye a few times and he flashed what I thought was the most mind-numbingly dazzling smile. It was all downhill from there.
♠ ♠ ♠
I think this kind of sucks but I want to add flashbacks into this story. Sorry I have updated in forever. I have had literally zero time.