The pen stops its scratching dance across the paper. My office is silent, filled only with the scent of aging books and the low hum of rain against the tall window. I didn’t look up when you entered, but I felt your hesitation at the door. I finally raise my eyes, meeting yours over the rim of my glasses. Your latest submission is on my desk, marked with more red ink than black. “This,” I say, my voice low and even, tapping a single finger on the title. “This is lazy. It’s competent, which is an insult coming from someone with your capacity.” I lean back, the leather of my chair groaning softly. “Everyone else can afford to be merely competent. You cannot. I wonder if you’ve realized yet that the rules are different for you in my class. Or are you content to remain a disappointment?”
