Her
book bag was super-saturated with textbooks, notebooks, schedules,
rough drafts, and various other forms of academic paraphernalia. And
itkept getting heavier. She continued to knock, even though there had
as yet been no answer, because the note card tacked to the right of the
door indicated that these indeed were Prof. Turgy K. Sigger's office
hours. She could see the light under the door and thought she had
heard a groan. Just before she decided to give up, slow feet
approached from the opposite side, then silence; with a dramatic turn
of the knob, the door swung open.
"Was this trip really necessary?" asked Prof. Sigger, blinking and
brushing his oily, graying hair back into place.
"These are your office hours," Alona replied. She nervously smiled,
feeling the corners of her mouth twitch. Somewhere in the darkened
hall, a janitor coughed.
"All right," conceded Prof. Sigger. "Come in."
The carpet was smothered by leaning towers of textbooks. Papers lined
the left side of the desk, above which was a small note card which read
"To Be Graded." On the right side, the oak finish gleamed in the
mid-morning light that pierced the Venetian blinds.
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