Rockstar
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Period.
She heard the chalk long before she opened the door, always the same hasty staccato as his hands flew over the blackboard like fingers over the strings of a guitar. Perfectly synchronized, he knew the flow of every number like a singer knows the notes to a song. He was more than the Professor of Applied Mathematics to the students; he was an icon, an idol, a genius, a God almost.
Slack khakis, white T-shirt, navy shirt with the arms rolled up… no wonder all the girls swooned. The way he moved, his intense look in combination with that sweet vulnerable face he got sometimes; there was no end to his appeal. He could stay in a classroom for ages, writing, thinking, staying in his own little world of logic, but he allowed himself to come out in order to show them the wonders of this logic world. And they adored him for it.
Amita didn't bother closing the door; he had his headphones on so he wouldn't notice the ambient noise anyway. She just hated having to disturb him, she could tell he was in the middle of something big, head and hands twitching to the music and the flow of his thoughts, but he had promised Larry and so she would be doing him a favor.
Reaching out, she uncovered his left ear, leaning over far enough to almost whisper. He immediately changed his stance, twitches gone, thoughts lost, music fading away, replaced. Of course, after lunch, how could he forget?
He was off in a flash, leaving Amita with the blackboard. His world was in those numbers, his mind, his life. She let her fingers touch them, run over them, careful not to smudge them, his hectic scribblings were hard enough to decipher anyway. Placing a post-it on the board to ward off any unsuspecting students or teachers who might need the writing space, she scolded herself for acting like the groupie to the rockstar.
Yes, Rockstar of Applied Mathematics, that sounded much more fitting.
