My Professor's Secret

07|

seven

The sky had faded into a swirl of pinks, purples, and deepening blues once my only lecture of the evening came to an end. The last few students trickled out of the building around me, their voices fading into the warm evening air as they scattered across campus in different directions.

For a moment I lingered outside the classroom doors, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder while the sky slowly darkened above the courtyard.

I didn't bother heading back to my dorm.

Going there would only waste time, and the idea of walking all the way back to Hinkhouse again in the fading light left an unpleasant feeling twisting somewhere in my stomach. The later it got, the quieter campus became, and I still hadn't quite adjusted to navigating everything alone after dark.

So instead I turned toward the path that led directly to the restaurant.

Most of the students around me were heading in the opposite direction—toward dorms, dining halls, or whatever plans they had for the night. A few groups laughed loudly as they passed by, the sound echoing briefly across the sidewalks before fading again.

The farther I walked from the academic buildings, the quieter everything became.

Streetlights flickered on one by one along the path, casting soft pools of light across the pavement. By the time I reached the block where Hinkhouse sat, most of the surrounding storefronts had already closed for the night.

If I hadn't recognized Professor Thornton's black Toyota Camry parked in the lot, I would have thought the entire place was empty.

The restaurant looked completely dark from the outside, the large windows reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights instead of the warm dining room I had seen earlier that week.

For a moment I hesitated outside the door.

Something about returning after hours felt different. The place had been loud and bustling during the lunch rush earlier that day. Now it felt still.

Quiet.

It was almost like I was entering somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.

I tugged gently on the door handle.

It opened.

The faint glow of the kitchen lights spilled into the hallway beyond the entrance, guiding me toward the back of the restaurant.

The deeper I walked inside, the more the quiet hum of the building replaced the noise from outside. The kitchen lights buzzed faintly overhead, illuminating the stainless steel counters and empty prep stations.

Professor Thornton stood at the sink with his hands submerged in dishwater, slowly working his way through the dirty dishes piled beside it. During my day shift when he was indistinctly discussing kitchen preparation, I recall him mentioning how he preferred washing dishes by hand rather than loading them into the commercial dishwasher.

I didn't agree, but I understood—my mom felt the same way. She was always raving on about how machines couldn't get the job done well enough and that by taking time to hand-wash them, she knew for a fact that they were thoroughly clean. Realistically, cleaning was her way of coping with the diagnosis. Reminiscing about the best parts of my mother seemed to always keep me afloat in times I needed her most, but the clinking of silverware hitting the bottom of the sink snapped my mind back in time and I walked further into the kitchen.

Every time Professor Thornton and I were in proximity, there was this unshakably mortifying sensation of embarrassment haunting me. It was obvious he didn't feel it which made more sense as to why he asked if I'd be able to handle the situation as a mature adult. Clearly, I was failing; miserably.