I tried to focus on what the professor was saying. But it was 4:15 pm and the classroom was warm and she was in class. My attention kept wandering up a row and two desks over to where she sat. She had the most beautiful hands—square, strong, long fingered hands, her skin smooth. I was enthralled with how she played with her pen, wondering what it would be like to have that hand caress my cheek, travel slowly but deliberately down my neck, rest on my heart and then reach out to cup my breast. . . I wondered how the smooth café au lait of her skin would look against mine. Almost as if I had called her name, she suddenly turned around and looked at me, an eyebrow raised. I felt the color rise to my face as I blushed furiously and returned my gaze to my notebook, pretending to write down whatever the hell the professor was currently saying, as though it was the most profound pearl of wisdom he had ever spouted. My cheeks still afire, I wished fervently that the floor would open up and swallow me or that magically the fire alarm would go off, so I could make a quick escape from being caught looking.