Tanya Thorsen looked at her hair in the double mirrors. It hung down to her bra strap, now that she had it out of the bun. She had been a very good girl in her instructor’s position at the U of Missouri, and then the department had screwed her. They’d taken away the group-theory classes she’d taught, and taught well, her first year. This semester Prof. Bronson was back from his sabbatical, and she had only calculus classes. Well, she was damned tired of being a good girl.

Missouri was supposed to be a party school, and she was fucking-well going to party. At least it was supposed to be more of a party school than Chicago, where she’d taken her doctorate. Of course, she admitted to herself, the average theological seminary was probably a better party school than the U of C was. She had a calculus course Saturday morning, but she was prepared for it. This was Friday night, and she was going to have a Friday night for once.

She had her hair down, literally as well as figuratively. She had her old contacts in. She would wear her tightest jeans and a Missou T-shirt -- extra small -- she had bought at the bookstore just this morning. She was already wearing her sheerest bra. The boys wouldn’t even look at her face. To keep the girls from recognizing her, she would drop the professor-sounding voice she had practiced so hard. Nobody was going to recognize her. There was really no rule against faculty going to the dance clubs, anyway.

The guy at the door carded her, and she showed him her driver’s license. She had carefully left her faculty ID at home. He looked from her face to the license suspiciously.

“Look at the height on the card,” she said, not in her girly voice. Everybody thought 4’ 11” meant underage. Well, it was the ID of a 4’ 11” adult. He nodded and stepped aside. The laughing girls he let in behind her looked underage to her, but they were tall. They were giggling, but maybe they had simply started their drinking before coming here.

She went directly to the dance floor. She started shaking to the beat without looking for a partner. When the record ended, a guy came over and raised an eyebrow at her. She nodded, and they danced together, or at least in front of each other, when the DJ put the next record on. Her third dance partner offered her a drink.

“Phil Young,” he said when they were sitting at a table. She recognized him now. He’d done fairly well in beginning group theory a year ago. Not a math guy, but not an idiot, either. Grad student in physics, she thought.

“Tanya,” she said. He didn’t ask for her last name. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies. She sipped her Manhattan and tried to steer the conversation to him. When her first drink and his second beer were done, he invited her to dance again. She agreed happily, needing to burn the ethanol off.

He seemed pleased with her, and she was damned pleased with him. He was solid, looking like his muscles had muscles, but he moved smoothly. He looked down into her face and smiled. If he looked a little further down, that was okay, too.

“How tall are you, anyway?” she asked in a break between records. She instantly regretted it. He’d be certain to ask back.

“Six-three, and you?”

“A little less.” As if he couldn’t tell that. “Almost five feet.” He grinned at her. They danced one more dance.

“Want another drink?” he asked. Really, she didn’t yet. She needed to pace herself. Her third would be her last, and even that would mean hoping she wasn’t stopped on her way home. She was conscious that her small frame could hold less than his massive one.

“Not really,” she said. “I like to keep a clear head.”

“Well,” he said. “We could get Cokes.” She liked that ‘we.’ He wanted to stay with her even if it meant sobriety. “Or we could keep dancing.” That sounded great. “Or...”

“Or?” She couldn’t let him stop there.

“How would you like to go for a walk?” How would she like that? He was already more important to her than the dance was, and talking while the records were playing meant shouting in her girly voice, and she didn’t want to drop that.

“With you? I’d like that.” And if he found them a hidden place on their walk to make out a little, she would like that, too. Where? Well, he was the student. Her experience, and damned little experience it was, had been in her apartment and the guy’s. A student would know where.

And, indeed, he soon had her in deep shadows backed up against a tree. He kissed her, and his lips on hers felt like fire. The kiss was hard, forcing her head back against the bark. Then it was gentle, barely touching as they breathed into each other. Then he wove his fingers into her hair and explored her mouth with his tongue. She was gasping when he let her go. He led her by the hand out to the sidewalk again. She shivered, and he put his arm over her shoulder to warm her.

Their next kiss was in a doorway. He stood below her with their heads nearly level. His tongue played with hers while his hands roamed her breasts, her back down to her butt, and then around front while he stroked up the thighs of her jeans.

“Tanya,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to come up?” Was this his place? Was this where they had been walking to? Well, she’d wanted to live, and that would be living. She’d been on the pill since leaving Kurt, and she’d only had one pallid fellow instructor two times to justify them. Phil, whatever his other faults, wouldn’t be pallid.