(no subject)
Deborah thought about the idea of the proposition. Hanging around the Sorbonne Police Department station. She could muddle through her reading list. Maybe keep a pile of her piled high and deep books in some unused corner, or occupy a shelf or two. She could grade student papers.
It might not be that bad. But what were the terms? What was this pouty, simpering letch behind a badge wanting from her?
“It would just be nice to have a pretty face around is all,” Hollo said.
“You know,” he said, “take care of a few odds and ends.”
“Plus,” he said, “We have a cache of unused funds right now, and if the county auditor comes in and checks us out.” He paused. “We could lose all of it.”
Said: “Might as well pass some of those government dollars on to a nice gal like yourself.”
Deborah asked about the bookshelf, about maybe a desk. Her office mates were sloppy, and they were unabashed gossips. Always spreading rumors about so and so sleeping with so and so. Such and so professor is leaving because they butt heads with so and such. This person felt Nietzsche a hack, and said so in seminar, so they were just stupid. They would titter and snort and swill old coffee and new herbal tea, and whisper. It was like a clump of caked on cholesterol on the inside wall of a septic tank, and it made Deborah’s stomach lurch.
“You alright sweetheart?” Hollo said. “Nurse!”
With a faint waft of her right hand Deborah waved him off. She said: “I’m ok.” She said: “Just sick and tired is all.”
“I know what you mean,” Hollo said. He mustered a concerned furrow across his forehead. If only he comprehended the turmoil of graduate studies - the department politics - the catty nature of graduate students and committee members, he might not feel so cavalier in his proposal to Deb.
William Comparetto
© 2007