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SWEET ACHE
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Quinlan
T
he Southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m ready to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices as I pull open the door, tired from a late night hanging out with Layla – my fault but still aggravating nonetheless – and having had to deal with some dipshit undergrads in the teaching assistant session I just came from didn’t help matters.
Generally I don’t mind if a student doesn’t get a concept. I have no problem helping them so that they understand. But when the students are too busy chasing skirts and worrying about who the Trojans take on this weekend to listen, it’s not my problem they received bad marks on their first pop quiz.
And it’s not helping my mood that I need to get laid something fierce. And not by my own hand. There’s nothing worse than a woman in need of a good orgasm.
Or two.
Or three.
I drop my backpack on the counter with a sudden resolve to rectify the situation with the first willing candidate who meets my discriminating standards. Then again I’m on the verge of being desperate enough that I might throw them out of the window for the right mistake.
I start rifling through the bazillion pieces of paper stuffed in my mailbox – such is the life of a graduate student in the Cinematic Arts. Shit, save a tree people, use e-mail. I automatically toss the ones about elective seminars into the recycle bin without even reading them because at the beginning of a semester the last thing I have time for is something that does nothing to further help me write my dissertation.
“Quinlan! Just the person I wanted to see!”
As I turn around to face my graduate adviser, the smile comes naturally to my face since I’m one of the select few fortunate enough to be under her tutelage. “Hi, Dr. Stevens.” She gives me a stern look that causes me to laugh at the formality of my greeting, so I cave to her oft-repeated request and correct myself. “Hi, Carla.”
“Better.” She laughs the word out. “Now, I’m not looking for my husband when you say that,” she says, referring to her spouse, who is a cardiologist.
I nod my head in agreement. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to like the fact that you wanted to see me?”
Please God don’t let her ask me to add something else to my already overflowing plate full of obligations, deadlines, and drafts I need to write.
“I’m kind of in a jam and I need your help.” She scrunches up her nose like she knows I’m not going to be too happy with what she’s going to say next. “Like I’ll give you a three-week extension on your first draft due date kind of help.”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and know that no matter what she asks, I’ll say yes. She’s my mentor for God’s sake. Anything not to disappoint her. “Okay?” I draw the word out into a question, fearful and curious all at the same time.
“Well, Dr. Elliot has brought in someone for a seminar that is starting” – she looks down at her watch and winces – “well, it started about five minutes ago actually. Anyway, he’s asked if I can help him. His TA, Callie, was supposed to do it, but she had a last-minute schedule change to accommodate one of her professors… and all of his other teaching assistants have classes right now…”