Chapter 4: Mrs. Derby

I named the dog that I never owned Derby.

Derby was the first name that popped into my head.

Mrs. Derby was the name of my first grade teacher. I had a crush on her, though I was too young to realize it at the time. I only knew that looking at her gave me a hot feeling in my gut.

I’d watch her clicking from her desk to the chalkboard, sweater stretched across her chest, heels wobbling ever so slightly, and my eyes would glaze over. My throat would tighten. I’d feel the warmth in my gut squirming down into my thighs and up into my chest. I’d taste my heartbeat on my breath.

Mrs. Derby would stretch up to write times tables on the chalkboard and her skirt would stretch across the curves of her ass … heat down to my toes, heat to the tips of my fingers. Heat to the roots of my hair.

She’d turn to say something and ocean waves would swell through my ears. My heart would slam dunk through my neck as I watched her lips form hearts on the air. The earth would stop. The room would spin, anchored by the gravity of her eyes.

At night I’d lay in bed picturing what our home together would look like. Probably a nice place with big sofas and lots of windows. A living room full of light and floral patters. A bedroom with a king-sized bed. Soft mattress, fluffy pillows, a thick comforter. Everything would smell like rose-scented detergent. And it would be pink, because Mrs. Derby liked pink.

I’d imagine Mrs. Derby sliding into bed in pink silk pajamas and that warm feeling in my gut would spread until my palms were sweating and my forehead felt warm and my blood boiled down to steam.

I’d spend hours trying to think up clever things I could say if I happened to talk to her the next day.

I never really thought of anything, though.