your hair is ridiculous. I wonder how you wash it. Or rather, if you wash it.
Long, crumpled, and dark, it hangs in a ponytail almost to your waist. The size and shape of this "do" forces me to recall an unsightly clog pulled from a shower drain.
And your sweatshirt. Forest green, navy, or grey. The same shape and sad feel about it that suggests it has been worn hundreds if not thousands of times and never given the proper respect it deserves.
These things are excusable given your work as a researcher and your passion for the disgusting animals you work with: pigeons. What gets my attention everyday is your interesting "air quotes." A typical human would use two fingers to gesticulate, either apart like peace signs or together like a Boy Scout's promise. But you, Dr. Sir elect for mitten hands, making a motion like you are waving to two small children standing next to each other. This intrigues me and disturbs me. Did you choose to do this sometime during your young experimental phase? Is it an attempt at non-conformity and rebellion? Or do you have some mildly disfiguring hand problem that restricts individual finger movement?
Carry on, Dr. Sir. Because your class is pretty boring and at least I have the quotes to look forward to.
Dr. Lady, it is hard to take you seriously today.
Every other meeting with you leaves me unsettled and fearful. You always look so put-together and scornful. Your outfit makes me imagine a closet full of turtlenecks and earth tone jackets. A vanity with the perfect make up and polished-rock earrings. An alarm clock set to 5:30 to ensure enough time to wash and shape the perfect helmet of hair placed atop your glaringly critical head.
Today, I see a new side of you. And that side is knee-high black patent leather dominatrix boots.
The dominatrix bit is only assumed.
As I try to concentrate on whatever it is you are saying, I am paralyzed by the squeaking sound of your boots rubbing together as you attempt to daintily cross your ankles. It's the sound of balloons rubbing together or that squelch from the jerk who squeaks his shoes on the linoleum when he comes in from the rain. The sound that hits me somewhere in the middle of my head by the back of my throat.
I will not be concentrating today. Excuse me while I attempt to shove notebook paper in my ears and scrub the image of whips from my brain.