Those were thethree things Mr. Fitzpatrick taught us
were part of every gothic horror novel.
He was the high school english teacher I
hopelessly crushed on, and I couldn’t
help but notice that his eyes lingered on
me when he said the second word. Sex.
I was a senior then, about to graduate.
Glued to my seat even in the late, late
spring when my classmates were
terminally zoned out, focused on
graduation, the summer ahead of them,
college. But I still had unfinished
business here, and today he was
wearing a black tie over a light blue
button-up and jeans that were just snug
enough to drive my imagination wild.
When he perched on the edge of his
desk reading from The Strange Case of
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, I let my eyes
wander up and down his body, imaging
a new use for each part.
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