I wake before the alarm. My clothes are already set out. The coffee maker brews as I shower. The same lines across my eyes, the same blow dry routine. Sometimes clips, sometimes bobby pins.
My car knows precisely where to turn to enter the space perfectly.
Every morning he saunters in with a giddy smile and a dozen pickup lines floating in his eyes and glinting from his braces. I sit behind my desk and look the other way to roll my eyes without hurting his feelings.
Writing on the board, erasing the board. Nag, nag, nag. Laugh, laugh, laugh.
I ponder at the end of the day if they actually learned anything.
Grade, grade, comment, grade.
Again, my car knows precisely where to turn to enter the space perfectly.