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Sometimes all Tanya can think about is how badly she wants to kiss Mr. Berkman.
She thinks about kissing him in his classroom after school, while the hallways sleep in silence, and the afternoon sun peers like a thief through the windows. A stolen kiss, snuck between graded papers. Red pens and markers, the desk cool beneath her hands. She's wanted this from the first smile, the first laugh, the first corny joke he'd told about the Ottoman Empire. Some of the other students say he's a hardass—and it's true, he can be strict—but whenever he speaks to her, he shows only kindness; whenever she offers to stay and help clean, he's happy to accept. And when she finally finds the nerve to make her move, he parts his lips and gently kisses her back.
She thinks about kissing him in a dusty library, where books watch from their homes on the shelves. He's old enough to be counted among them—a weathered history text, though Tanya finds him more like her beloved fantasy novels. He's old enough to be her father, but that doesn't stop her thumbs from tracing the wrinkles on his cheeks, or her lips seeking the rough stubble that blankets his chin. He likes knit cardigans and crisp collared shirts, and always wears his long blonde hair in a ponytail. He couldn't be further from the boys she's expected to love, but Tanya loves only him. There, with his arms around her, she's never felt a dream as delightful as this.
She thinks about kissing him in her favorite café, his lips spiced with hot chai and sugared with the taste of strawberry shortcake. They sit at a table by the window, so the sun warms their skin, and the people passing by can see how much they adore each other. He twists one of her pigtails around his finger, and tries to steal her cherry danish while she's distracted, because he likes sweet things, and her laughter is the sweetest of all. Though Tanya gets her revenge with a box of macarons, holding each up to his lips before playfully pulling them back again. Because his pout is the cutest she's ever seen.
She thinks about kissing him on a blanket in the park, the scent of wildflowers delicate and bright. Birds sing their songs through the trees, butterflies dare to be chased. Tanya's fingers sweep back stubborn strands of his hair, like she's yearned to do so often in class. Their picnic lunch is long gone, but still she hungers—for his lips, his tongue, his hands gentler than the summer breeze. Cradling her face, pulling her onto his lap as daylight fades to dusk and the crowds Ooh and Ahh while fireworks bloom like flowers in the dark. How lucky they must be, to shine on a love as eternal as theirs.
She thinks about kissing him on her eighteenth birthday, how she can't imagine a more perfect gift. He's the kind of person to sweep her off her feet with roses and candlelit dinners, noble as the knights in fairytales, romantic as the ballads that follow their quests. But Tanya doesn't need to be spoiled to the ends of the Earth; his lips are more than enough to wake her, his gray eyes brighter than any treasure in the dragon's den. And when he leans down to give her his present, wrapped in the glow of dancing flames, Tanya knows she could never be a princess; their stories can only dream of ending this happily.
She thinks about kissing him in his bed, from night until morning, their bodies entwined and their hands exploring all the places they've longed to touch. He's her first, her last, her everything—the sweat on her skin and the whimpers in her throat, the name she cries out when she arches off the sheets in climax: "Roger." His breath is hot on her thighs, his voice crawling upwards in a whisper: "I promise I'll be gentle." Tanya feels her legs shake, she feels a push, and then all she feels is bliss, pulsing through her veins as he finally makes her his. "I love you," he says, as they're lying in each other's arms afterwards, "I always will." She falls asleep to the echo of his words, and a heart that beats forever with her own.
Sometimes, when she's sweeping the pencil shavings from his floor, all Tanya can think about is how much she feels like one of them.
"Please don't feel you have to stay late every Friday," Mr. Berkman says, gathering papers into his bag. "As much as I enjoy your company, I'd hate to see you miss out on spending time with your friends."
Tanya stops to smile at him. "I don't mind. It just means I get to hear more of your jokes."
He laughs, warm and soft. "You know, that might be considered a form of torture in some countries."
"Like what the court jester said when he was put on the rack?
"This joke is a bit of a stretch." Their voices echo in unison, followed by a span of laughter that Tanya wishes she could curl her fingers around and hold close to her chest. "Must've been a bad joke for you to remember it," he says.
"But it's yours," Tanya replies, hiding her sadness. "No one else can tell it like you do."
The smile on his face flickers slightly, and in his eyes, Tanya catches a glimpse of something fragile and lonely, or so she tells herself. "Come on," he says, in a gentle tone, "let's get you out of here so you can start your weekend."
She finishes up and puts the pushbroom and dustpan away while Mr. Berkman gives his desk one last look to make sure nothing is left behind. Coats are slung on, bags hoisted over shoulders. He locks the door behind them as they head out, the two savoring a few more minutes of conversation before the exit looms in the distance. Tanya can't bear to say goodbye first, so Mr. Berkman does it for her. "See you in class Monday?"
Frigid air stings the corners of her smile, but she holds firm. "Yeah, I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Neither would I," he chuckles. "And not just because I'm getting paid."
They gaze at each other in the approaching dusk, their gray eyes holding onto a moment too brief to be missed. Then, "Take care, kiddo. Have a good weekend."
"You too. Bye, Mr. Berkman." And like that, they part, Tanya carrying the memory of his smile all the way to the bus stop and far beyond.
The house is quiet when she arrives home, her mother already gone for her graveyard shift at the hospital, no note left behind. Tanya cooks herself some dinner, sits down to eat it while watching videos on her phone. She showers, reads a few chapters of her book, texts her friends and passes the time as best she can before tucking into bed with one of her favorite stuffed animals. One her father gave her before he died, a piece left to ease the loneliness, though it seems to have lost its magic as of late. Squeezing it tight, she shuts off the lamp, and stares up into the darkness.
She doesn't think about what disappointments tomorrow will bring. Of empty hands and broken dreams, or how she'll be graduating at the end of the semester. She doesn't think about endings, nor beginnings. Sometimes, when she's lying there, she doesn't think at all.
And sometimes, when the world feels too much, and the stars twinkle like teardrops in the sky, all Tanya can think about is how badly her heart aches for something more beautiful than just a kiss.