Mr Alighieri and I were sitting on upholstered chairs
in the front room of his apartment on Purgatory Lane
A freshly brewed pot of tea sat on the end table
between us, and we sipped from ceramic cups
all la-de-da you know – professor and his student
He spoke my name in his overly precise manner,
‘Miss Yrotaval, ‘ each syllable falling with fluid grace.
‘Please call me Meghan. Saves time, you know, ‘
I said, smiling and leaning back as my skirt rode up.
He fidgeted, lowering his eyes, and motioned
toward an open pack of cigarettes on the table.
‘I don’t smoke, Mr Alighieri, ‘ I said. A faint blush
rose in his cheeks as he looked away.
‘I read with great care your dissertation on T.S. Eliot,
quite remarkable and very astute – you intend to teach? ‘
Always the formality and reserve, I thought. A fussbudget
and anal retentive bachelor lost in books and papers –
‘How about a tussle with naked flesh and blood right here
and now? Damn remarkable and astute all to hell! ‘
He agreed because we consummated our lust then and there!
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