She was having an affair with her teacher. He was married, late thirties, always wore his eyeglasses on one of those hideous, convenient cords, and she hated it. His personal life was a mess, and as much as she didn’t want to be a home wrecker, this was a home she didn’t mind wrecking. His wife was cruel and cold, yet needy. Having met in their youth, the couple didn’t know what they were getting into. They hadn’t had kids yet, and although his wife wanted them, he refused. Nowadays, he was scared of having sex with his wife, for fear she was plotting pregnancy. Astrid had walked into his classroom in the perfect second, on the perfect day, during the shittiest week of his life. She was’t registered in the school, was crashing his course, and admitted so, apologetically. He didn’t mind. She was a small, yet reassuring presence, and quietly gave him strength. Her eyes seemed to scan the room constantly, her peripherals never stopping to rest. He liked her from the second she walked in. Sitting in a park, with her leg over his, he was thinking about just that.

“You know, I liked you from the second I saw you,” he said.

“Huh, I can’t say I felt the same,” she responded in a blunt, yet mischievous tone.

“But you seemed interested from the beginning. Plus, on the first day, I kept catching you looking at me.”

“To be honest I look at a lot of people,” she smiled, creating distance from the emotion. She wasn’t sure if she could handle him falling in love with her.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Astrid.” There was a long pause. She could guide this situation, she would. Or at least she was mentally convincing herself that she could.

“That’s very sweet of you to say, I’m deeply flattered.”

“You don’t love me do you? We’ve been seeing each other for months, don’t you feel like there is something here?” He observed her face subtly react.

“I do. You know that I do. But look at me. Do I even look like someone who is ready for this?”

He squinted at her. Orange hair tousled, mascara smudged, ripped jeans, and a steady stare.

“Kind of. I don't know if what you’re saying even has validity though. You can’t look like you’re mature inside,” he said, laughing at the idea. She pulled out a cigarette.

“Please don’t smoke.”

“Well I’m not. I’m not mature inside.” She stood up, reaching for the strap of her book bag. Army green, ripped, the random buttons displaying political beliefs clung onto mere strings of fabric. Her cigarette tipped precariously over her lip, barely lit, as she moved her mouth to keep it in place. She checked her watch. 6:23.

He kissed her cheek.

“Maybe you don’t know yourself.”

“Maybe you can go fuck yourself.” She walked away.

At 6:23, on January 8th, I told Erik to go fuck himself, she thought. I feel like I’m going to remember that until I die.

She didn’t.