herself was. Thank you, love.
He’d nuzzled into her cupped hand. And now, please stand by for metaphorical supplementation. Or, rather, lay by.
Is that what you’re calling it? Metaphorical supplementation? Really?
As she’d laughed, he’d surged forward to capture her mouth. Tumbled her beneath him. Marianne. His wife. His…everything.
He blinked his eyes open, bewildered and squinting in the harsh classroom lights.
The memory…
For the first time, it prompted a fierce ache, but didn’t rend his heart anew. And somehow, that felt like yet another loss.
When had the sting of remembering his wife—his wife—become almost bearable? And what did that say about him, his constancy, his vows?
“Griff?” The word was loud. Sharp with concern.
He resurfaced and focused.
Candy. That was Candy, not Marianne.
Even lost in his past, there was no mistaking one for the other. The two women could hardly be more different, which burned like bile in his throat some nights.
Candy had set aside the poster. She was eyeing him carefully, somberly, her glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights.
“Sorry. I was thinking. About...” He fumbled. Shoved back his hair and grasped for words easier than the truth. “I was thinking about whether you’d have your Frankenstein initiative again this year.”
Still watchful, she shook her head. “I’ve decided to implement four-year cycles.”
“So most students experience each initiative during their time in Marysburg High, but you don’t get bored doing the same thing year after year.” He scratched his bearded chin, still fidgety. “Clever.”
The slight curve of her lips was charmingly smug. “No need for more frequent repetition. Students don’t tend to forget my initiatives.”
“No.” His unexpected bark of laughter hurt his tight chest. “I imagine they don’t.”
“Will you help me with this last poster?” She tilted her head to the left of the door. “I want it over there.”
In response, he grabbed the level and tape dispenser and crossed the room, grateful for the opportunity to occupy his hands and distract himself from his troubling thoughts.
As they worked, he glanced over at her. Her eyes were a bit red-rimmed now, her face paler than when she’d arrived that morning. And just a minute or two ago, she’d been fighting tears again, slumped and mournful for reasons he hadn’t yet discovered.
They could both use distraction, then. He would provide it.
“About your Frankenstein Is Not the Monster Initiative…” The top two corners secured, he began to make loops of tape for the bottom of the poster. “I’ve been meaning to discuss it with you. I think it could use some retooling.”
Immediate, livid color filled her cheeks. Her eyes snapped to his, narrowed and sharp. “Is that so?”
It was more a warning than a question, and one he deliberately failed to heed. Their evening in the emergency room had taught him well.
“I think a convincing argument could be made that Victor Frankenstein is a monster. More so than his creation, in many ways.” He quirked a brow at her before applying tape to the bottom of the poster and smoothing it against the wall. “There you go. All done.”
“Thank you.” The words were clearly begrudging, but she said them. She thought for a few moments before continuing to speak. “As far as my Frankenstein initiative… you may have a valid point.” Then she pointed an accusing finger at him, her continued annoyance clear. “That said, you’ve deliberately misinterpreted the mission of the initiative, which is to stop students and certain intransigent faculty members from calling the misbegotten creature Frankenstein.”
“By certain intransigent faculty members, you mean Mildred,” he guessed.
Her nostrils flared. “I mean Mildred. The scourge of the art department.”
Last Halloween, even after Candy’s initiative, Mildred had assigned her students to make collage portraits of Frankenstein. And by Frankenstein, she meant the creature, not the scientist.
He had no idea whether Mildred was deliberately rattling her colleague’s chain or was merely oblivious. Either way, the day Candy found out about the collage assignment, alien life forms in distant galaxies surely heard her infuriated howl and ran for cover.
All that week, she kept declaring, “There was a puppet show. A puppet show.”
All that week, he had to duck into his classroom to stifle his hilarity, even as he sympathized with her frustration.
“If accurate identification of Victor Frankenstein is your primary goal, then maybe you should rename the initiative.” He scratched his jaw again, dimly aware that he should either shave off his facial hair or care for it a little better. “I suggest something along the lines of: Victor Frankenstein May Be a Monster, But He’s Not the Monster.”
“I’ll take that