February 20, 2016

It is starting to get rainy and stuffy. The nice windy weather is gone, and that meant I had to get a whole different set of my wardrobe cleaned in order to have appropriate clothing for this hellish climate.

I had moved to a new building located closer to campus two weeks into the new year—a couple things made me set for this one, the first was the decent apartments, and the second was the communal laundry room in the basement.

Waking up I figured today would be as good a day as any to do some laundry since this Saturday was bound to be an uneventful one—or so I thought.

I remember being a freshman and buying a few of those cliché t-shirts at the campus store, now I only used them to sleep or stay inside. I had put on one of those t-shirts—although this one was mainly plain with only a discreet small logo on the back—along with black leggings and flip flops.

I plugged my headphones on my phone—even though there was nothing on— and laid my phone on top of my clothe-full basket before leaving my apartment.

I usually had my headphones on just so I could avoid small talk in places like a communal laundry. Most of my neighbors were at least ten years older than me.

My building was not exactly cheap to afford for most students, which meant I would not have much in common to talk about with my neighbors and I was not in the mood to serve as their road down memory lane about their time back in grad school or anything like that.

I had chosen to go down once it was close to noon, figuring there would be fewer people then.

Walking in, the first thing I noticed was the strong smell of clean clothes—a soothing mixture of lavender and something else I could not pinpoint—and the bad yellow lightning that made it hard to see the back of the communal laundry room, which, for me, was a rest to my eyes and my incessant migraine.

I chose a washer close to the door to deposit my laundry—some darkish mid-length dresses and pencil skirts, as well as couple of gray and black band shirts—sitting down on one of the benches in the middle of the room to wait.

On the left side there were about six washers while on the right side stood the dryers—about the same amount and distribution as the washers—, it was a lengthy room with a large counter on the back wall so people could fold their pieces after drying them.

Maybe it was the fact I was not exactly paying attention to my surroundings, or the disposal of the communal laundry, or even how I had wasted no time to close my eyes once I sat down.

About twenty minutes after I walked in, someone at the counter dropped a basket-full worth of clean clothes on the floor disrupting my bubble of silence and making me subconsciously turn to the side to observe.

I was surprised by the sudden noise, but mostly by what my eyes met once they adjusted to the light to look at the clumsy neighbor whose clothes were then scattered on the floor.

At first, I figured it was too much of a coincidence, just someone that looked a lot like her, but as she turned around, either to look for help or to see if anyone else had witnessed her misfortune, our eyes met, and I was able to properly see her face.

Those caramel eyes were familiar to me, but the blushed cheeks and an abashed semblance was something I had yet to see on the face that usually resembled confidence and empowerment.

The first thing to cross my mind was that it ought to have been as awkward to her as it was to me. After all, people just do not forecast to bump into one of their students while doing something as intimate as their laundry, especially if they happen to be dressed just as casually as we were.

Then I fathomed it had been just over two weeks since school started and I had only participated a discreet number of times during her lessons so I figured she would probably not be able to pinpoint my face out of one of her other students, at least that was what I hoped for as I decided to just play it cool and offer some help as any other neighbor would, help to which she accepted with a shy smile and disconcerted eyes.

As I walked her way, I lowered my headphones resting them around my neck.

Once there I bent down beside her to collect some pencil skirts and social dresses out of the floor, there was not much interaction during that process as I avoided looking her way.

After everything was back on the counter on a disorganized pile, we started folding them side by side in an awkward silence.

She would not stop giving me curious side-glances and it led me to think that maybe I had overstepped by helping to fold her work attires, or worse, she had realized I was one of her students by then and felt exposed. I picked up my pace and, once I was done, started to excuse myself to go back to my previous seat.

Only then she decided to be vocal, "Thank you for the help, you really didn't need to fold them..." I stopped her with my hand up in the air, "No problem... Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I folded them out of habit."

I was almost back on the bench, just about to put my headphones back on when she spoke again, this time with more confidence in her voice, reminding me of her classroom approach, "I'm Cecilia, 701." She said, and it gave me an uneasy sensation on the pit of my stomach knowing I had somewhat misled her.

For that moment forward I would know her for more than just Professor Bailey. I was her student and still she seemed completely unaware of it.

Nevertheless, I retorted accordingly, "Remi, 902." I had the feeling I should have said something else, I probably sounded too surly—like my mother often say, I need to make more of an effort not to seem like an asshole, I am one of those people who have the resting bitch face always on.

Her apartment number ending in 1 meant she had a two-suit, different from my one-suit, which ended in 2. I guess she figured that out as well because she used it to keep the talk flowing and I saw myself participating on a small talk I did not half hated.

After a while, with no other option but to end the conversation or to actually get to know the new neighbor—A.K.A me—she went on with, "Don't get me wrong, but you look abnormally young compared to the rest of us grumpy elders living here."

By then she was taking a new set of fresh dry clothes to fold while I moved mines from the washer to the dryer closer to the back.

Her playful tone had made me laugh, she was one of those people that just did not seem to age, with perfect skin and shiny smile, her comment sounded inaccurate when it came to herself.

I knew she was fishing for more, maybe out of curiosity, or rather just to keep the conversation flowing. Nevertheless, I answered her implied question, "I figured moving closer to campus while still getting to keep a decent place was worth spending some of the family money," hopping my comment about the campus would pass unnoticed, I kept on going, "You don't look half as old as you made it out to be, I'd risk a well-conserved thirty."

I just reread that, and I did not sound half as confident as it seems written down.

"Not exactly, but I'm flattered you think so. My students tended to get surprised on first days once they noticed I was the lecturer not a student. Albeit, I don't recall seeing any surprised faces this semester, maybe age has finally caught up to me." If only she knew right then what I had thought of her on that first day.

I got my hopes up she had missed my intention behind my poor attempt of diverting the conversation, but then her eyes grew bigger. She had a pensive look for a couple seconds and then it hit her.

"You did look familiar even though I had yet to see you around the building." After that she seemed stiff and guarded as she quickened her pace placing her folded clothes on her basket.

"You are attending one of my Family Law classes, aren't you?" Maybe she was really done with the talk and decided to leave, or rather it was the fact she felt she had broken the unspoken rule to not socialize with students outside of campus­—not that many still followed that.

"I'm sorry I didn't mention anything before." I tried to make her see I was being sincere, "Look, I didn't... I thought it wouldn't be that big of a deal." She still seemed tense as she walked farther away from me and closer to the wall with the washers, but still managing to be half turned to me. I could see she was not at all convinced, though.

"You have nothing to worry about. It's not like I'm gonna call you by your name if I have a question during one of your classes. You have no reason to freak out, I know how to behave. My mother is the head of the social studies department, I spent most of my teenage years at dinners and events with board members." She looked taken aback, probably because my mom was somewhat her superior.

I had tried to sound as convincing as I could, but all I got was a nod, that is, before she outright flipped the switch inside her head. It was like seeing someone else taking over her body.

"Look, I'm just not the type to befriend students, I've had one too many headaches because of students who thought they could blur the line." The new mysterious person that took over seemed like her complete opposite, but I could somewhat relate, if you are a woman around cocky childish men, like the ones I have the displeasure of studying with, then you ought to be hit on, not that it was much different from the queer girls from that place.

If it were hard enough being a student, I could only imagine how complicated it should be for a professor if one of those students decided to play victim in front of the board.

"I understand your side, I really do. I'm sorry for any inconveniences," was all I said before turning my back to her and attempting to busy myself by picking my clothes out of the dryer and going toward the back to fold them.

I did not see her walking away, but I heard the elevator doors opening and closing.

Talk about a weird turn out of events.

Once I was done with my laundry and had them folded into my basket I got back to my apartment with a feeling of weariness. It was close to 2pm when I decided I did not want to have a late lunch alone. Unlocking my phone, I figure Amy—one of the few friends I did manage to make in law school—would most likely be free.

I called and told her to meet me for lunch at a small Italian restaurant close by, which we had the habit of going on weekends and after classes, sometimes to have lunch but most times just to have a glass of wine after a long day.

Once I ended the call, I discarded my phone on my queen-size bed along with my clothes and walked to the bathroom on the right side of the room. I then took a quick shower; straightened my hair; put on a flowery yellow sundress and a pair of golden sandals; got my phone, wallet, and keys; and got out closing the door behind me.

Amy and I had met on my second semester, it was her first semester and she looked very much lost inside the library. If it were any other person, I would not have cared less if they got lost in that labyrinth, it was a rite of passage after all.

But I had seen her in one of Nero's classes, as I went to return a book he had landed me—it was about the same time he became a mentor to me—, I recalled him laughing and pointing at her with his head as he told me she would be the next Remi, which meant she would suffer being the one he would be addressing most of his questions to.

That was why I took pity on her that day at the library and decided to help the owner of those desperate blue eyes staring back at me. At first, we would cross each other around campus and have small talk, but after a while, I'm not exactly sure why or how, we got closer until she became the first person I went to whenever I wanted advise or just to gossip about something.

We chose a table on the far back of the almost empty restaurant, I could see the street through the big glass walls at the front as I sat facing Amy with my back to the wall. Once we were done eating and I had filled Amy in on the whole communal-laundry incident as we drank our wine, she added her insights.

"Girl, she's just your type, ain't she?" Amy said in her usual playful tone, "Your ex was the kind to make small things turn into tsunamis just like that one," I laughed in agreement. She was somewhat right, although I could not exactly say I had a type, I had dated the same person from my senior year in high school up until two months ago.

I took a moment to let what Amy said sink in, and even though I was attracted to the professor, the ramifications of anything resembling a relationship with her were probably not worth it.

"I don't care much about that, though she's hot and all, let's face it, she's probably too old for me anyway." I never got the chance to learn her age, but considering I had just turned twenty, and the professor had laughed at my comment about her well conserved thirty, I would guess she was about fifteen years older or so, "And a professor, after all. Can you only imagine how complicated that would be?"

I am done with troublesome relationships and it would probably be too painful to deal with the side glances and the disapproval.

"I had my fair share of crazy psychos and I'm about done with it." My last relationship ended in a very messy way, with lots of tears and two broken hearts, the last thing I needed was a repeat of that added the whole ethical problem.

Amy did not seem to buy it though, she kept insisting, "I don't know, I feel like you would go for it if given the chance, she tots gives out a gay vibe." Then she became pensive for a while before breaking into a devilish smile, "Just keep me up to date on whatever happens, okay?" She said, more curious than concerned.

I could not help but agree inwardly that the professor was anything but straight. I knew Amy was not the only one to think so, it was well spread over campus that Professor Bailey wasn't exactly old fashioned when it came to sexuality—although before actually meeting her, I always assumed it had more to do with her political and social views seeing as her line of research was LGBT rights under prospects involving family constitution.

Amy got my attention again as she added, "You're so lucky. There are no cute male professors on that campus!" She complained crossing her arms and leaning back on her chair with a frown on her face. I could not help but laugh.

After another hour or so at the restaurant we paid the bill and then left together back to my place. Amy had decided to stay over so we could watch yet another cheesy movie on Netflix.

I never minded when she stayed over, especially if it meant tomorrow she would end up helping me unpack the rest of the moving boxes that were scattered all over my living room, I was not exactly the fastest person when it came to moving into a new place.

Remi