Steffi staggered in the door.

“That bad?” I asked. “You look—I don’t know...” I was going to say fucked, but I don’t use bad words. Not aloud, anyway.”

Steffi collapsed on the couch and offered a wan smile. “Oh, Gena,” she sighed.

As discreetly as I could manage, I closed the lid of my laptop. “Tell me about it.”

Steffi’s head lolled to the side, her blond ponytail swaying after. “It was...”

“Hell?”

Yeah, “hell” is a word I use sometimes. I’m not a complete prude. Steffi didn’t seem to be paying attention, so I went on: “Everyone says student teaching ain’t easy. And you going back to your old high school. That must have been rough. And working under your old teacher. What’s his name? Shutterbug?”

“No.” Steffi took a deep breath, her small but perky tits stretching the slightly-too-tight, one—no two—buttons undone, blouse. My blouse, actually. We’re both petite, but at 5’2”, 103 pounds, I’m petiter. And the truth is I don’t mind when Steffi borrows my clothes, even if it means they might get stretched a tad. And as you can see, I don’t mind using naughty words on the page. My tits are about the same size as Steffi’s, but not quite so perky. My not-quite-ripe apples compared to her sunshine-seeking pears.

“No?” I leaned forward to encourage an answer.

“Not hell, exactly.” That wan smile reappeared on Steffi’s face.

I frowned. “I’m confused.”

Steffi swiveled so she was lying on the couch, her long legs stretched out, her eight-inches-above-the-knee schoolgirl skirt—my school-girl skirt, six-inches above the knee on me—rucked up nearly to her panties. Her panties, though I wouldn’t have minded...

Steffi interrupted this thought with: “Do you think you could make me a cup of tea?”

“Tea? Sure you don’t want something stronger?” I had a bottle of our favorite white wine chilling in the fridge.

“Tea,” Steffi confirmed, her brown eyes flickering.

“Alrighty.” I hopped from the easy chair and headed to the kitchenette of our little, close-to-campus apartment. It was only this semester, the final of our college careers, that we were sharing, though we’d been closest friends since sophomore year. “Green or regular?” I called out over my shoulder.

No answer. I back-tracked to the living room. Steffi was asleep.

“Poor kid, exhausted,” I said under my breath, and for a time I stood over her, watching the gentle rise and fall of those pear-shaped breasts. I thought about covering her with the afghan my grandmother had knitted for me as an off-to-college present. I also thought about unbuttoning that blouse—it was mine, after all—so Steffi’s steady breathing would gradually shift the thin fabric aside, after which I would gently but firmly suck her tight little nipples into stiff pink peaks of perfection. Yeah, right. She shifted slightly in her sleep, and now her white cotton panties were clearly visible, as was the sizable wet spot at their center. My own center was buzzing at the fringe, moistening in the middle. The teapot whistled. Steffi stirred. I hurried back to the stove to turn off the heat. “I’ll make green,” I said to myself.

I drank the tea and then another cup and then fried an egg and ate it on a piece of toast and still Steffi slept. It was dark when she awoke.

“So teaching really knocked you out,” I commented from the easy chair across the room. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

Steffi rubbed her eyes. “Okay. If you promise not to take it the wrong way.”

I gulped. What might she mean by that? I thought of a school bus going the wrong way down a one-way street. Inside, school-kids were laughing and shouting, oblivious ... I nodded. I turned on the light.

“You know I had Shattabus in high school.”

“I thought his name was Shutterbug.”

“You’ve also got to promise not to interrupt.”

I was silent.

“Okay. Up until then math was not my strongest subject. I was a sophomore. Most of the kids in Geometry were freshmen. I didn’t want to take math at all, but I had to for college, and, right from the start, something about Shattabus—I don’t know how to explain it—he beguiled me. There was something so sad and innocent about him.”

“Like me,” I put in. “Sad and innocent.”

“Ha!” Steffi snorted. “And shut up. You promised.”

I smiled and spread my hands.

“There were stories about him. Something about his wife leaving him for a real mathematician or mailman or someone. He moped around wearing a dreamy sadness, but I was sure underneath was a hot body. Plus his voice was like midnight radio. His voice alone was enough to make me wet.

“In those days I hardly knew what sex was. But every night I touched myself to sleep dreaming about Mr. Shattabus. And I looked forward to his classes with—” Steffi sighed, and that, I guess, was word enough. “I made sure every problem, every proof, was perfect. I mastered plane geometry. Of course he didn’t know I existed. I sat in the front row. I wore short skirts and tight shirts. I let my legs slip apart. One time I even ditched my panties the period before. Shattabus was oblivious.”

“That must have been frustrating.”

Steffi chuckled.

“How old was this guy, anyway?” I asked. “Ancient?”

“I don’t know. Thirty? He had wavy brown hair and sometimes he didn’t shave and I wondered what his beard would feel like on my skin. And he had nice lips and those sad eyes. And he always wore suits, but they didn’t always match. Brown pants and black jackets. Spots on his ties. He was a fashion disaster. My dad would call him a schlump. Deep down, I knew he was a hunk.”

“So you were hot for him.”

“More than hot. Perpetual melt-down.”