How It Ends: Part 1 - The Evaluation Read Free

fabric over
skin as the man checked his watch.
    “How about a scone?”
    “Sure.”
    She rang him up.
    He handed her money and she handed him back
too much change.
    “Scone’s on the house today,” she said. She
smiled. It was a shy smile.
    He smiled back.
    “Thanks.”
    He dropped the coins in the tip jar and
pocketed the bills. He loved free stuff. He loved even more that he
got it by turning on the charm.
    He picked a table by the front of the shop
where he could see out the window and be seen and sat down. He took
a sip of coffee. It was strong and sweet. He liked it strong as jet
fuel. He wasn’t as fond of the sweetness of the coffee, but he
could tolerate it. His next cup would be black as the devil’s heart
and sugarless. He bit into the scone. Crumbs fell to the table
which he swept onto the floor with his hand. The coffee and the
scone had never tasted better, he thought.

    * * *

    Three months ago they had met. He was
lecturing in one of the auditoriums. Juniors mostly. Science majors
taking a robotics elective. The seats were filled three quarters of
the way. That was about right. The beginning of the semester saw
the house full. By the time October arrived about a quarter of the
students had dropped the course or decided to take it in absentia.
Which was fine by him as there were fewer papers to grade. The
lectures were staid. This was the ninth semester he taught this
course. He crafted it the first year, perfected it the second year
and let it run on autopilot for this the third year. He recited
rote teachings that could be just as easily researched in any
decent text on robotics. He let his mouth ramble while his eyes
wandered. Looking for someone lovely, always looking for someone
lovely. There were so many to choose from. So many that wanted to
touch greatness or simply wanted to ensure a decent grade.
Transcripts were everything to some. Transcripts were gods and he
was merely the high priest. So many worshippers at the idol of
academic perfection that he would welcome into his cramped office
stuffed full with a desk, a chair and two bookcases. Bookcases
filled with volumes and bits and pieces of robotic engineering that
he had found over the years, trinkets of memory. These were the
holy relics the worshippers came to see and touch and pay their
reverence. His desk was the altar at which self-respect was
sacrificed in the name of good grades. He had a grading scale. He
assumed all professors did but he rarely went to department parties
or social get-togethers so he couldn’t say with certainty. His only
certainty was that he had one. No matter how poorly they performed
on tests or papers, there were always ways of guaranteeing passage.
Handjobs were Ds. Blowjobs were Cs. Sex was Bs. Anal was As. Once
they understood the lay of the land each girl was free to make her
own choice. Some were repelled. Some were repelled but performed
despite. Those that came for better grades chose their grade, that
limit for which they were willing to debase themselves. Most got C
grades or B grades. There were precious few As. Few were willing.
But few were not none.
    He surveyed his lecture landscape as always.
Scanning for the next willing subject. His eyes landed on her for a
moment, then moved on. But they came back. Something about her.
Something about the way she looked. Something hungry. To his
surprise she was not a fool or an incompetent bitch taking his
class because she thought she might skate by. She raised her hand
and asked questions. She turned in papers that were not a chore to
read. She had potential. She would not get above a B unless she
came to him like most others did. But the raw talent was there. Raw
talent was B material. For her.
    Come to him she did and react to him she
did.
    Slap.
    Her right hand squarely across his face with
the glowing red mark to prove it. Not the first time he’d been
slapped. Was certainly not likely to be the last. But this one hurt
more than most. This girl had