Praying the Prey Doesn't Prey

I was darting down the hallways as silently as my stilettos would allow looking this way and that way, fearing that any moment he would find me, catch up with little effort and unleash. 

I was long ago cured of the notion that the work place is the right place for romance, months of staring at a certain him’s closed eyes while he kissed me bored and fucked me sad made me realise that I had made a most unfortunate mistake.  Luckily, he was a good man if not the right man and we remained friends, taking on the stodgy and antiquated ideas of our English department cohorts, but that was the end of dating co-workers, at least for me.

Years later I find myself doing my very best to avoid another educator in the high school halls because I recognise that certain gleam in his eye when he talks to me, that intimate way of speaking that tells me he’s building up to something, that smile that says he believes I’m in on the perceived interest and rumble of sexual longing.  He is so fucking wrong.

I just need to manage to either avoid him or never find myself alone with him for 14 more days and I’m going to do my best.  I know the suggestion of us sharing a mutual activity in the same location at the same time or what the normal amongst us call a date can’t happen until I turn in my passcard and final grades because until that moment I am his subordinate, in his employ, a teacher to his assistant principal.  

I simply can’t fail, not because I couldn’t or wouldn’t turn him down but because he is a nice man and I occasionally, often, lack the ability to say things politely in the game of sexual politics, especially when I feel hunted and cornered – once a feral child. . .