Professor Blat, she says, the words whispered.

I stop in mid-sentence, in mid-thought. I hear the message in the whispered words and lean toward her. She's wearing a black dress. One of the really short ones that are popular again, praise God. I dare to put a hand on her knee, my eyes looking unblinking into her eyes.

As she takes my hand, the sun comes out from behind a cloud and a bar of light slashes across my desk and over her legs, where her fingers touch my wrist.

Professor Blat, she whispers again, as if urging me to come out from behind my title, and come to her as a man.

Call me Henry, I say, as I rise from my chair.

I lock the door. I close the blinds.