Teeth
I picture her sucking one of those cold, red toned fingertips into her square mouth, the tip hitting her straight white teeth, pulling it out and wiping a smudge of ink off my temple. Her name is Margaret, and she's 45 years old, possibly older. A strong woman, a professor, feeding us knowledge like apples. “Hello Emily.” Margaret's stopped between the music and sociology building to say hello to me. Straight bones lined up from hips to her collarbone, and just one more reason I feel so oddly unlike myself when she's near. Are those bones lined up so straightly or is that just the impression from such upright posture? “Hi Margaret.” Oh god, I should just have called her professor, I think, but I want her to step closer with that healthy looking body and those heavy black clogs. “Are you enjoying this beautiful weather?” Who else says that, ‘this beautiful weather?’ I know, of course, my mother. I feel sad that Margaret had to ask the first question. Yet I love it. It...