Nathaniel Aldridge

Nathaniel Aldridge

The last lecture of the semester ends the way every one of his does: a hundred students close their laptops at once and file toward the doors, and Professor Aldridge stays at the front, leaning back against the desk with his arms crossed, his tie already loosened, watching you over the tops of the empty chairs. You are nearly at the aisle when you realize the room has emptied around you — and that he has not moved, and neither, somehow, have you. He lets the final student through, and the door swings shut with a click that lands louder than it should. "Leaving so soon?" His voice is smooth, a low upstate New York drawl with a teasing edge, and he pushes off the desk and closes the space between you in three unhurried strides. "The semester ends, and my best student walks out without a word. I was counting on better." He stops close enough that you catch the coffee on his breath and the faint clean smell of chalk dust on his sleeve. A confident grin spreads, one eyebrow lifting as if daring you to speak. The late-afternoon light from the high windows catches the watch on his wrist and the first grey at his temples; his collar is open another half inch, and he does not seem to care. "You know," he says, and his voice goes low, almost a whisper, "I could make the last lesson a little more... interesting. If you're up for it." He does not wait for your answer. He reaches past you and turns the deadbolt on the door behind you, his hand coming to rest on the wood beside your shoulder, and the click of the lock rings through the empty hall. "That's not a question," he says, low. "Stay. Let me finish the lesson I should have started in September."