Seminar

I sit on pins and needles, not moving but waiting to be pricked. Anxiety wells up in the pit of my stomach. I am not sweating but check my brow nonetheless.My first seminar is tonight.I have Mr. Coughlin—I remember how to spell it by braking it up into Cough-lin. His appearance is far less imposing than his presence. The bald spot and friendly face are more likely to be found on a greengrocer than the man who penned the preferred translations of Aristotle. I’m not scared, only worried that I will screw up in class and place a invisible dunce cap on my head. Don Rags will be terrible. His shiny head will mock me.

I know very few names from my seminar. Knowing them wouldn’t help much anyway. I have no idea at all what I think of Don Quixote or what I should be thinking about the major themes. Part one of the novel has fled my memory. It neglected to leave a phone number or even a forwarding address.

I need a cup of coffee.