she was teaching the class about the difference between the imperfect and indefinite past in spanish. and in a fraction of a moment, a german word escaped her.
how do you know that word, the boy asked the teacher. he was from austria and had never fallen in love.
the teacher looked to him and smiled slightly. her teeth were a bit yellow. her gums a bit pale. i knew a german once, she said. i learned it from him. she placed her wrinkled hands on the particle board desk. i saw her fingertips turn white like ghosts from the pressure. so white they were almost red. and then they self consciously disappeared into her lap.
they rose again. slowly, self consciously. as if she had been caught somewhere she shouldn't have been. quickly, she brushed her hair behind her ears, now short and coarse from the chemo a few years back. her hair used to be below her waist, she once told the class. she smiled at this, too. and then she looked out the window. there was just a wall.
i watched her eyes the entire time.
when her gaze returned to the boy, i thought of the tornadoes that had turned a nearby town into a picasso painting in the years past. abstract and out of order, she looked as if she had just been swept up into the hungry mouth of a twister and then spit out lackadaisically among aluminum siding and rusted tractor parts. i felt hollow all of a sudden. maybe sorry, even.
the teacher cleared her throat and swallowed. alright, now where were we, she asked.
page 73, chimed the chorus of mildly disinterested students. the austrian was fiddling with his mp3 player. he was asking the student next to him why he couldn't get wifi.
she nodded. or maybe she shook her head. her fingers gripped the book tightly as some of the others searched for page 73. they turned white again.
"bueno. el indefinido es algo que pasa una vez en el pasado y no tiene nada que ver con el presente."
it was all spanish from this point on.
how do you know that word, the boy asked the teacher. he was from austria and had never fallen in love.
the teacher looked to him and smiled slightly. her teeth were a bit yellow. her gums a bit pale. i knew a german once, she said. i learned it from him. she placed her wrinkled hands on the particle board desk. i saw her fingertips turn white like ghosts from the pressure. so white they were almost red. and then they self consciously disappeared into her lap.
they rose again. slowly, self consciously. as if she had been caught somewhere she shouldn't have been. quickly, she brushed her hair behind her ears, now short and coarse from the chemo a few years back. her hair used to be below her waist, she once told the class. she smiled at this, too. and then she looked out the window. there was just a wall.
i watched her eyes the entire time.
when her gaze returned to the boy, i thought of the tornadoes that had turned a nearby town into a picasso painting in the years past. abstract and out of order, she looked as if she had just been swept up into the hungry mouth of a twister and then spit out lackadaisically among aluminum siding and rusted tractor parts. i felt hollow all of a sudden. maybe sorry, even.
the teacher cleared her throat and swallowed. alright, now where were we, she asked.
page 73, chimed the chorus of mildly disinterested students. the austrian was fiddling with his mp3 player. he was asking the student next to him why he couldn't get wifi.
she nodded. or maybe she shook her head. her fingers gripped the book tightly as some of the others searched for page 73. they turned white again.
"bueno. el indefinido es algo que pasa una vez en el pasado y no tiene nada que ver con el presente."
it was all spanish from this point on.
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