text: The classroom rarely has a sense of peace. It’s my free period, where I can enjoy my lukewarm coffee from Starbucks and sad-looking salad. I have just enough time to catch the F train, gather the papers that need to be graded, and grab the empty seat at the end of the subway cart. There are essays that still need to be distributed back, but I’m hoping my students don’t ask me about them. Usually they are filled with rumbustious energy from lunch, carrying loud conversations to their assigned seats. I look over at the clock. 2 minutes left. I quickly clear my lunch from my desk and begin to write today’s question on the whiteboard. How To Convey Emotion in a Short Story. The day before we looked at “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver. We began reading in class and instructed the class to continue on themselves for homework. Even though I’ve incorporated this story into a lesson several times, my. Thoughts are constantly changing. Did Carver add a sense of irony of how these characters don’t actually know anything about love? Does it convey the character’s insecurities and deepest fears they have about love itself? Before I can finish my train of thought, the rush of my students fills the classroom. I hear echoes of mid term exam stress, frozen fish stick served at the cafeteria, and the upcoming winter formal. “Alright, alright. Settle down please!” I stand in front of my desk with my hands crossed on my lap. Slowly, the voices are almost minimal and their eyes are focused on me. I smile. “I hope you all finished the short story we started reading in class yesterday. It is a great example of the topic we are going to be talking about today, which I have written on the board.” They look over the question and I see one raised hand from the corner of my eye. Adam, a fairly average student, clicks his pen once as if to signal when he will begin. I call on his name. “I’m guessing from what we read... conversation?” I nod, that is exactly where I was getting at. “Yes!” I answer, “Conversation is actually a key way that the author conveys emotion in this piece. However, there is one other example that also plays a part to show emotion here.” I turn to write Adam’s answer on the board. Another hand is raised, and this time it is by Delilah. Straight A student in my class, a wonderful story teller in each weekly prompt that is assigned. “Detail? Specifically about how the characters are acting.” Also correct, a little less obvious than conversation. “Excellent! Those are two elements of storytelling we will be looking at today.” I say as I write it as a second bullet under the question. Adam raises his hand again. “Before I dive into these answers, what did you all think about the story itself? Did you like it? Found it confusing?” I manage to steal another sip of coffee before I call on Adam once again. “It’s clear that none of these adults know anything about love.” The rest of the class erupts in a fit of laughter, others are agreeing with an expression of “Yeah right?!” “I can see why you feel this way. There are two adult couples, all drunk off of gin and telling random stories to each other. Terri, thinks that even though her previous husband abused her, he loves her.” The laughter and smiles from Adam’s response begins to fade. “We don’t get much dialogue from Nick and his wife Laura, but their lack of input is based on their marital bliss. They just got married, they’re still in the ‘honeymoon’ phase.” I say and watch as their focus is brought upon me inventively. “So marriages go south eventually?” Mark openly remarks. Some students chuckle and others have no reaction. “Well, no not all of them”, I chuckle. “But all couples will go through their up’s and down’s. They will share arguments, personal problems or issues they have carried from previous relationships. The term ‘honey moon phase’ specifically is about couples who don’t reach there yet; they haven’t shared their battles, or they avoid arguments, and keep their insecurities a secret.” I see boys and girls alike take in what I say earnestly. A few of them take it with a grain of a salt. “Is that why you’re not married?” Mark asked. Now before I respond, this is the type of relationship I have with my students. We joke, we try to keep the environment light. I need to keep up with the humor of Gen Z. So most the jokes told slide. This was just a little too personal for my liking. But I managed to laugh. “It could be one of the reasons!” I respond. “We should set you up, Ms.M!” “Yeah! What about the junior English teacher? Mr.Domentino!” “Oh he would be great!” Delilah and Samantha are going back and forth, two best friends of course. But as soon as his name is mentioned, my heart begins to flutter. Mr.Domentino, or Milo, was a favorite of the upperclassmen. He taught Shakespearian Literature for juniors and seniors, and every student who has taken his class left positive reviews for him online. He played tapes of “A Midsomer’s Night’s Dream” and “Macbeth”, reenacting the voices and mannerisms as if the classroom was his stage. One free period, when I walked over to use the restroom, I peaked through the door window. He wore an exorbitant crown, a velvet cape and paraded around the room with the stage presence of an actor from the 16th century. He managed to make teenagers break into laughing fits, and even smiles from the shyer pupils. “Okay that’s enough!” I tried not to blush at the sound of his name being mentioned. “Mr.Domentino is too busy reading the classics, whereas I...” I pause for dramatic effect and stand in front of the class room with my hand on my chest. “Teach you how to write! The real thing that matters. Shakespeare can stay in the past where it belongs and no longer bore anyone else to tears.” Students share an ogle of “ooo’s” while I laugh at their childlike humor that I’ve somehow matched. “Anyways, let’s go back to the lesson! The usage of conversation is a great way to convey emotion...” * * * * * The final period ends with the sweet sound of the dismissal bell. Eliza finally finishes grading the pile of essays and makes her way to erase what is left on the whiteboard. There is plenty of time to spare to catch the train. She returns to that state of tranquility like she had earlier on in the day; no student or faculty in sight. As she’s ready to put her jean jacket on, there’s a knock on the door. To her surprise, Milo is standing in her direction. “May I come in?” He asks with a soft smile that makes Eliza realize how much she would love to see it more often. She awkwardly stands by her desk and makes a gesture to walk in. “Of course, how are you?” That did sound a little too formal, but she tried to be casual around him. They mostly shared small talk or what lesson plans they had whenever they would bump into each in the teacher’s lounge. He walks towards the white board, a few inches away from where Eliza is standing. “Good, good. Just dismissed my class.. held them a little longer to go over an assignment.” Eliza nods and then cracks a smile. “Another assignment on interpreting Shakespearian language?” She holds her gaze and watches as Milo lets out a chuckle. “No I actually assigned some parts for them to reenact in class. But I know for some it might bore them to tears.” Eliza’s playful smirk turns quickly into bewilderment. How the hell did he know about that comment she made earlier? Now Milo is smirking and before Eliza can ask how he knew, he says “Mark might have mentioned what you said.” Remind me to punish Mark accordingly, she thinks. Her cheeks turn a shade of red, and quickly tries to brush it off. It’s no use, because Milo’s smooth expression sends Eliza in ways that is anything but nonchalant. “Well, I stand by what I said. Classics and old literature make for good exposure but developing your writing skills is more... fruitful.” There, she knows what she’s talking about. She walks over to get her purse and Milo is still leaning on the whiteboard. “Fruitful? The same old story of two drunken couples who know jack shit about love? Now if you want to teach your students about one thing about love, Shakespeare is a great example-“ Eliza cuts him off in a fit of laughs. As she should. “Oh sure. A thirteen-year-old and sixteen-year-old fall in love and kill themselves in the end. The epitome of romance.” Milo does think thats a valid point, but wont ever admit that to her. He loves to continue this banter and have any excuse to ruff up a few of her feathers. “It’s more than that! It’s a euphemism for young love and the risks we are willing to take early on. Don’t you agree with that?” She listens to him say, as she turns over to and faces right where he is standing. Their height difference is even synced, where her head reaches just under his shoulder. His head leans down and stares into her iridescent hazel eyes. Oh how they both love the idea of one another. Beyond the physical and mental stimulation. When Eliza started teaching three years ago, the first person she met was Milo. And out of all three years, they both managed to be single. She imaged what deeper conversations could potentially look like; bad dates they both went on or what TV show they were currently binging. But would they ever admit that they were attracted to each other? Or that they loved when students brought up their names and managed to secretly play matchmaker? She manages to break the tension. “I might” she replies and grabs the jean jacket wrapped around her chair. As she starts to put it on herself, Milo holds onto other sleeve to help her into it. They’ve gotten comfortable now. Before she excuses herself out and on her way home, Milo walks out of the room with her and down the hallway. “Are you chaperoning the winter formal?”, he asks. The principal had asked her last week and Eliza was hoping to come up with an excuse on the spot. What fun would it be to watch teenagers for over five hours, either frenching or grinding on the dance floor while she the drank stale fruit punch. But now it may be worth it. “Unfortunately, yes. Are you?” Milo flashed a smile, he was hoping she would be there. “I am, and luckily I won’t have to do this alone now that you’ll be there.” Eliza giggles, and continues to face the end of the hallway, to avoid any sign of excitement he might read from her current expression. “If I’m going to be stuck with you all night.. there will be no talk of anything English related.” He laughs. “Nothing of the sort.”