Just Like That

Part 2

You could quit. Find another job. Find another profession. Work at Disney World, perhaps? Maybe open a llama and alpaca emporium? These were the thoughts that went through your head on a normal work day. Though there was only panic and curses swirling around your sleep deprived brain as you had apparently hit the snooze button on your alarm. Not once. Not twice. But enough times so that for every 9 minutes, for the last hour, "Eye of the Tiger" blared directly in your ear.

Yesterday had been a mess of a day. Your class was off—full moon? Knowing that Thursday was essentially their Friday since they had the day off and you had to go to professional development? Whatever the case may be, they were off. The following questions had actually left your mouth yesterday—- "Why is there a pancake on your computer? Why is your arm covered in expo marker?" Oh—and the classic, "Did you just lick that?"

The answers were:

I don't know.I don't know.I don't know.

At a certain point, you threw your hands in the air. Literally and metaphorically. Kids deserved grace, especially a room full of nine and ten year olds. Adults have off days, so kids should be able to have them too. It didn't stop you from muttering the lyrics under your breath, "Y'all gonna make me lose my mind..." To which three of your students called out, "Up in here! Up in here!" Even when you were so completely over the day, they made you laugh. Honestly, it's one of the reasons you became a teacher. Your job was exhausting, but you were guaranteed to laugh each and every day.

Unfortunately, laughter didn't make it less draining. Nor did your profession give you ample time to meet men. At least, that was what you were going to blame your lack of dates on, along with your continued conversing with your ex-boyfriend. What was the harm in still talking to him (six years after he crushed your soul)? You were friends! You weren't dating anyone. He wasn't dating anyone....seriously. Why couldn't you both be mature about things and talk occasionally.

Because your heart belonged to him. He owned you. If he said jump, you'd ask how high? If he suggested drinks, you were buying a new dress for the occasion. And when he suggested going back to his place, you would follow him like a puppy—even though you were fully aware of what it would involve and how he would go radio silent the next day. It didn't matter.

That's why you had stayed up late into the evening messaging him over Instagram, because he didn't think it was a good idea for you two to text one another. That should have been a red flag—and honestly, you weren't an idiot. You knew why he wanted social media messaging over text...You knew this was him using you, but maybe–you were using him as well? You enjoyed the routine. Knowing what to expect. Knowing just how far this "relationship" could actually go. There was safety in playing the victim sometimes—whether you openly admitted it or not.

However, as you laid in bed, waiting for him to message you back, you found yourself drifting to sleep. He hadn't messaged back in twenty minutes, but what if he was just getting ready for bed? What if a work thing popped up? (At one in the morning, reader? Really?) You had to stay awake.

All of this prompted you to remember your promise to Scott. He wanted Loki to read his narrative that he had accomplished all by himself. You told him you would try to send it to him. You didn't realize that you'd be exchanging messages with Tom until you eventually passed out.

cgfan0820

I have to ask...Who am I speaking to?

The question was never answered, but it didn't quite matter since you had passed out moments after sending the message.

Now, you sat in an elementary school cafeteria with teachers from all over your district. There was no shame in your two coffees propped in front of you. Or your make-up free face. Or the impressively high bun you were sporting. Truthfully, you were just impressed that you managed to find clean clothes this morning. Your "METAPHORS BE WITH YOU", complete with Star Wars font, was the first shirt you plucked from the laundry basket. It was teacher humor. Your kids liked it. You liked it. Who cares what anyone else thinks...

But as you sat in the meeting—pretending to listen to whatever drivel was being squawked at you, you snuck a quick picture of the shirt, minus your face for obvious dark circles, red eyes, blotchy skin reasons. There were some perks to being in large meetings. Everyone was essentially pretending to listen, just like you. No one around you cared that you snapped a picture of your shirt logo, mindlessly opened up Instagram, and sent it to the last person your message.

cgfan0820

I wouldn't mind you taking this shirt off of me.

Are you one with the force?

Your ex, David, adored Star Wars and you pretended to love it to the same degree he did. Stars Wars AND mindlessly flirting during a meeting? What could go wrong? Your eyes stayed glued to the presenter, waiting for your phone to vibrate with a response. You don't see the constant typing, stopping, and typing again pattern from your recipient. Finally, you feel the slight vibration, signaling your eyes to look down.

twhiddleston

I don't believe I'm the droid you're looking for.

Fuck. The realization hits you like a ton of bricks, memories from the night before coming to the forefront now. You hadn't had time to mull over your conversation with whomever ran Tom Hiddleston's Instagram account. No matter who it was (although you wish they would have answered your question from last night—who were you speaking to?), it didn't change the fact that you just asked this person to take your shirt off of you. The proper thing to do would be to take a moment, take a breath, take it in....THEN respond.

cgfan0820

Oh my God! Fuck. I'm sorry!

I can't believe I

But your fingers send the messages off without even finishing the sentence in the last one. You're going to throw up. You're sure of it.

cgfan0820

Obviously, you weren't the one I meant to send that to...

This time, you do catch the typing, stopping, typing pattern. This guy had to think you were nuts. One day, you're asking them to show Tom Hiddleston one of your student's writings and the next day—you're sending pictures of your boobs (covered in a witty shirt, but still very much your boobs).

twhiddleston

That's wildly unfortunate. I thought my appreciation of metaphors prompted the shirt. You didn't wear it for me?

Was he—was he...No. That's not flirting, Y/N. That's carrying on a conversation in an attempt to take away some of your embarrassment. This isn't flirting. It's talking. You didn't wear it for me?!

cgfan0820

Every week I bribe Scott to write a story about another Marvel character. Hemsworth last week. Shooting for RDJ this week, but he was busy.

twhiddleston

You wound me.

Now, I love Chris like a brother, but I very much doubt he would have appreciated Scott's metaphor as much as I did.

cgfan0820

Maybe not the metaphor, but what about the shirt?

twhiddleston

Very, very much so.

What the hell did that mean? Two verys? Did that mean something? After analyzing students' writing, a double set of very meant a great deal more than one very. Very. "Very," you whisper as the word sounds so odd off your tongue. It's lost its meaning and no longer sounds like a real word.

cgfan0820

Is he a big Star Wars fan?

The pause between your question and the tell-tale sign of typing seemed to be an eternity. Although the logical part of you knew that this person had to be some sort of public relations person for the famous actor, it didn't quite matter. You held your breath as you waited for this person to answer with how big of a Star Wars fan Hemsworth was or some equally nerdy fact about the great franchise.

twhiddleston

Darling, no one is thinking Star Wars when they first see that picture.

Oh, fuck....