A Corgi Named Kilowatt

Evan braced himself against the wall of the hallway and glanced down at the syllabus. Intro to Poetry? Something in his belly flipped at that. It was the kind of more advanced class he hadn't expected to be allowed to teach until much later in his PhD program.

He might have entertained fantasies of himself sweeping into a lecture hall, the flaps of his coat fluttering behind him like a cape, as he commanded the attention of every single student in the room. With a sentence, he enraptured them. As he completed the poem, he ensnared them. By the end of the class, they were his.

The flutter of the papers brought his attention back to the present, and Evan finally noticed the class start time. 9:30 a.m. That left him—he checked his watch—fifteen minutes to trek to the Kestrel building on the other side of campus. Hardly enough time to become familiar with the syllabus before presenting it to the class.

"Calm down, it's no big deal." He shoved the copies into his messenger bag and took a moment to straighten his tie. At least he'd dressed for success today, wearing what he'd taken to calling his 'professor uniform': pressed white Oxford shirt, pale blue tie, and khaki slacks. Part of him wanted to go for it and wear the bow tie, but he didn’t think anyone else would get that he was trying to be ironic.

Maybe if he hurried, he'd have time to look over the syllabus while the class filed in.

Evan hadn't counted on having to navigate around students who were finding their own way. He'd been in town for a few weeks before the semester started, and he was used to the campus being relatively empty. They'd done a nice job of separating the university from the town around it, using strategically placed trees and half-walls. It gave the campus the feeling of being in a park full of green, hidden from the outside world.

Still, that meant he didn't know any short-cuts yet himself, so when he made it to Kestrel, he was sweaty and out of breath. So much for making a good first impression.

The sense of dread only increased when he made it to room 302, pushed open the door, and found it full of expectant students who all looked up and stared as he entered. Sweat slid down between his shoulder blades, making him feel unpleasantly cool in the air-conditioned room.

"Good morning, class." Evan made his way to the professor's lectern and set down his messenger bag.

The whispers started.

"Excuse me?" An older man in the front row raised his hand.

He must have been a non-traditional student. Evan couldn't help but be districted by the good-looking stranger, with his thick, dark, wavy hair and sleepy bedroom eyes. He had stubble shading his cheeks, the kind that begged to be stroked. To top it off, his voice was deep, like whiskey over gravel. All those features had long been part of Evan's mental image of the perfect man.

Evan held tight to the lectern and his attempt to be a professional. Of course he'd have the dumb luck to meet someone just his type in one of his lectures. "Yes?"

"You can't be our professor. You barely look old enough to be out of preschool."