Julia and Robert

 My favorite student just died. I hated that guy.

 

Julia slammed her journal shut, sat back in her chair, and remembered.

 

It had never been her intended profession. After all, those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. But right from the beginning, Julia found she had a knack for it. In her mind’s eye, she always envisioned herself as a powerful woman of industry, but even as a freshman in college, her classmates would seek her out, knowing she could translate the professors’ sleep-inducing lectures into language they could understand. Julia had the innate ability to reduce an hour-long monologue into ten minutes of pure scholarly gold.

 

Some people have jobs. Others have professions. Julia had a calling.

 

She was barely older than her students the day she met Robert. He was late to class, not much to look at, and — truth be told — in the wrong classroom. He’d intended to sign up for Introduction to Philosophy but somehow ended up in Julia’s Marketing 101 course. Never one to admit a mistake, he sat in the front, raised his hand for every question, and debated Julia incessantly.

 

The first paper he submitted was technically perfect and stylistically magnificent — a rare thing in a first-year class. Whereas most freshmen papers were usually terminally dull, Robert’s first assignment was an epiphany, a page-turner. He had a unique writing style she hadn't seen before or since. He always started his papers by relaying a seemingly-unrelated story to the point he was about to make. That first paper began by discussing Generals Lee and McClellan before moving seamlessly into a discussion on the marketing campaign for New Coke. Julia had to Google the Battle of Antietam just to follow his argument. She loved every word, docking him points only for his lack of citations.

 

When she pointed it out, he responded that his papers were his personal thoughts and opinions, but Julia wouldn’t budge. His next paper, equally well written, was full of citations, all from himself. Julia was both flabbergasted and, if she was being honest, impressed. She gave him an A+.

 

By the final day of the semester, Julia felt deeply conflicted. Robert had challenged every premise she made and forced her to consider nuances she hadn’t intended for an introductory level course. His background in philosophy bled into every discussion, linking Aristotle to AirPods, John Locke to John Deere. The banter between teacher and student became the best part of her day and must have affected the class as a whole seeing as not a single student dropped her course or failed.

 

A teacher learns quickly that every semester is a brand new story, unwritten at the beginning and set in stone by the end. Julia felt both relieved and disappointed at the start of her second semester: she wouldn’t have Robert in the front row challenging her every point — but she also wouldn’t have Robert in the front row challenging her every point. However, five minutes into the first class Robert walked in, late as usual, and headed for the front row. The only things that had changed were the class level and the fact that this time, he had enrolled on purpose.

 

Julia was certain that Robert was making philosophy instructors all over campus miserable for the rest of the day but she was thrilled he made her miserable from 10:00 to 11:00 a.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

 

If at all possible, the second semester proved even more challenging and rewarding. Word spread about the spirited debates in her classroom and although Robert remained the ringleader, Julia now had a class full of students who questioned, and prodded, and argued, and disagreed, and when appropriate conceded.

 

It was magnificent. It was why she taught.

 

Late in that second semester, Julia was almost certain she caught Robert avoiding eye contact with her at the same time she was trying not to stare at him. The age gap between teacher and student was negligible, but there were just some things a good professor didn’t do. And Julia was a good professor.

 

On the last day of the second semester, one by one, the students brought their final exams to the front. Uncharacteristically, Robert — who always finished first — sat at his desk, watching, until he was the last one left. Finally, he gathered his backpack, his paper, and his nerve, Robert stood and approached Julia.

 

The tension was palpable and when he handed her his exam their hands briefly touched. The electricity she felt almost overwhelmed her. He looked into her eyes but said nothing, then turned to leave. Julia tried to find the words to stop him, but she didn’t even know why she wanted to. Then, as if he’d heard her thoughts, Robert turned his head and locked eyes a second time.

 

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

 

There was nothing in the world she would have rather done. But something held her back. So she said nothing. Robert smiled, still reading her mind, and then he was gone.

In the years that followed, she would often turn over that moment in her mind and wonder how different her life would have been if she had said yes.

Neither Julia nor Robert ever married. She dedicated her life to teaching fledgling business students. Robert did the same, only in London, where he taught philosophy. Every now and then he would send her a note complaining about a student who annoyed him the way he had once annoyed her. Each note also brought an melancholy smile.

When she received his final letter, she expected more of the same. But it wasn’t. Instead, she received a ten-page, single-spaced paper explaining how her class and her teaching had changed his life. Accompanying it was a short note from an attorney explaining how the letter was to be sent only after Robert’s death.

With tears streaming down her face, Julia thought it was insufferably beautiful — and, of course, all the citations were from Robert himself.