The Professor was a careful, methodical, organized man. He coiffed and trimmed his beard just so. He tied his bow ties perfectly evenly. He wore brown jackets with reinforced elbows just like any good professor might. He submitted immaculately written essays for professional journals. He edited his students' essays savagely, marking them up with blue ink, catching every error and every flaw in their arguments. He used blue ink and not red because he was red/green colorblind. His conversations at faculty dinners were pre-thought out and planned and because of this he appeared all the more intelligent, all the more witty, all the more qualified to fill his position. All this care was necessitated by the professor's age. He was at least 30 years his colleagues' junior. He had obtained the position as anyone else might, via the usual application routes and procedures, essays and interviews, but his age gave him something to prove. He was a professor of History, not a very well paid discipline. A discipline populated with men motivated by passion for the field, not money.

Karolina was one of the Professor's students. She was also careful and exacting in many ways. She edited the papers she turned in to him sometimes four or five times. She always sat in the front row. She always made carefully thought out arguments in class. She came to class prepared with her readings tabbed and marked, notes in margins and flow charts prepared. She was also always freshly showered and perfectly coiffed for class. But this careful construction of her persona was not necessitated by her age, as it was for the Professor, but by her abiding crush on the Professor. She wore her hair tousled just so, her blouse unbuttoned just one button too low, her skirt just one inch too short. She crossed her legs carefully and slowly under her desk. She eyed her Professor with a mixed expression of intense interest and subtle flirtation. He taught History and Ethics of Technology. She was an Art History major but was interested in the socio-economic backgrounds of the artworks she was studying. He was young for a professor. His shoulders, broad. His gait, commanding. His eyes were a color she could not place from behind exceedingly long eyelashes. Karolina felt swept away by his superior intellect. She felt herself wanting to submit to him, to lie before him, to offer herself up to him. She fantasized about this during his lectures.

"Intellectual Property," said the Professor as he walked into class one day and wrote the words on the board. Karolina twisted her hair between her fingers and eyed the Professor. He stole a glance at her, one that was a split second too long. Karolina took copious notes during that lecture, but managed to carefully cross and uncross her legs as the Professor looked at her. She too was careful in her movement, careful with her choice of words. She looked at him in that special way she knew how. After class the Professor asked her to collect the papers for him and carry them to his office. Finally, she thought.

"I wanted to discuss with you your major," the Professor said. "Your papers for my class are insightful, but I wonder if you shouldn't be studying a wider range of History."

Karolina was livid. Hadn't he read any of her papers? She had to compose herself. "I try to encompass all aspects of a work of art in my papers. I try to put it in socio-economic context, in political conext.