At the conclusion of the semester, she told him she had decided to go back to school and pursue a Master of Fine Arts degree, and asked him if he would write her a recommendation, which he did. He stopped teaching shortly thereafter. As with several of his students, he carried on an infrequent correspondence with her. Many people who passed through his classes—some of them more than once—tried to stay in touch with him. Because of the demands of the craft, the intimacy of writing, the certain risk of exposure people felt in sharing their fiction, and the serious and careful attention that he gave their work, a number of students imagined they found in him a kindred spirit. The class could, and did, become for some a place not only where they could safely share their creative apprentice efforts without fear of ridicule or discouragement, but also their troubled thoughts and dark confusions. He never considered himself a teacher in the strict sense of the word, and then he never. She turned back and flicked up a light switch on the wall with no result. She sighed. A short, sweet sigh. And headed for the kitchen."Fuck," I whispered. I couldn't see into the kitchen and not even a shadow of her cast out. If she started cooking, I might risk moving. Maybe to the bedroom across from me. But she was back soon enough with a half-full bottle of vodka dangling from her right hand. She aimed for the couch, sat, and found the remote.The television flicked on and, I assumed, the DVD player. I couldn't see the screen but, from all the grunting and moaning, it was surely a porno flick. The sound covered my moves as I turned my squat into a kneel. She put her feet on the coffee table after kicking off her boots that landed in a neat clump on the floor. Then she uncapped the vodka and took a sturdy swig - a small bit trickling onto her chin. She looked around the dark apartment, and even at the closet door for a prolonged while. If I hadn't been there, I'd have considered her.
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