Homework, Part I

Winston and I shake hands uncomfortably over our shared desk. He is tall. Too tall. The kind of tall that makes you wonder if, when you're standing side by side, you end up looking like a midget. I look down at my feet. They are frighteningly close.

Winston is from Kentucky. He went to TUFTS. He thinks he is charming, because he has that barely there southern accent, tempered by years of schmoozing on the east coast. I fucking can't stand him, or his need for our desk to always be organized.

We agree to draw a dotted line down the middle. Horizontally. Our work space is frighteningly close.

I derive sick pleasure in leaving random things on his side. Like paper coffee cups. Or dried up pens that don't work. And reciepts. Reciepts for things like, "panty liners" and "Magnums". His squirming is the only thing that puts my mind at ease most days.