Part 5.

I sat on the cold cement stairs, knees pulled into my chest, reading the article over and over and over, snared in a Hellish mind-loop, with shame, anger, and powerlessness competing for supremacy. Until a familiar sultry scent freed me, and I looked up to see Circe's shocking pink hair.

"You okay Ulysses?"

I shrugged. "Sort of. It's personal."

She plopped in the stairwell next to me, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she wiggled her hips to make space. "Well, you know, I'm training to be a head shrinker, and personal's what we do."

After wavering for a beat or two, I held out my phone, trusting her, and she snagged it. Her hazel eyes went round as she read, narrowing as she scrolled down, the muscles of her jaw tightening as she approached the end. "What the fuck. You were the victim... Did you call the cops? Or a lawyer? I mean, they doxxed you."

I sighed, taking back my iPhone. "Second time in a week."

"What? Second time? The Daily Gawker?"

"No, not the Gawker."

So, I spun the Alpha Shlong tale and my drunken Friday with my email, text messages, and social media accounts blowing up, though I edited out Kelsey. What the hell, only two weeks ago, I'd banged Circe, so she didn't need to know. I didn't want her to feel used. I mean, I didn't use her, dig? Just good old-fashioned flesh-on-flesh friction, fun for all, a win-win.

Anyway, the stairs shook, distracting me. Head whipping around, my gaze landed on a herd of people trying to get past us. Classes were letting out, so I leaped to my feet, Circe following suit. With little thought, we drifted towards the exit with the students. It was a fine November day, among the last we'd see until spring: mid-70s, sunny, the colorful autumnal foliage vibrant and imparting a perfume to the air that always reminded me, for no apparent reason, of my grandmother's maple syrup spice cake.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Liberated into the warmth of the open air, we walked towards a bench and sat. Circe leaned forward, gesturing to the sky. "Gorgeous. And a full moon tonight."

I nodded, agreeing but wondering what the hell the full moon had to do with anything. We sat in silence, faces turned sunward, watching chipmunks and squirrels squirreling away their winter larders, and I felt content.

Circe leaned forward. "Damn, I feel like grabbing an easel and painting. It's been ages."

"Weren't you an art major?"

She nodded. "Yup, was. But didn't want to teach, especially art. Art teachers are always the first to go. My mom teaches high school music. Every year, she sweats the budget ax. Stressful. And AFTER dealing with hormonal teens? No way José. And I have zero desire to play the romantic starving artist. What a crock. Living with my folks and paying back my loans while making about thirteen dollars an hour as a barista after tips. Never. So I talked to a counselor, we hatched this head shrinker career-path, and here I am, a twenty-something grad turned professional student still haunting campus."

I spread out my legs and arms, before jerking tight my legs, afraid of creepy-ass voyeurs peeping up my skirt. But I kept my arms stretched, almost touching Circe's shoulder, so close her hair in the breeze tickled my hand. I smiled and imagined throwing my arm about her and pulling her close, whispering sweet-nasties into her ear.

But she stirred, her gaze flashing to me, a sly grin sliding across her face. "That lunch offer still open? I'm famished."

I nodded. "Sure, I'm on paid leave through early December, got nowhere to be. You?"

She stood, dusting off her skirt, shaking her head. "Nothing for..." she glanced at her hot pink and electric chartreuse Swatch watch,"... two hours seventeen minutes. Then it's just a student club meeting, but this one's important one to me, my baby."

"Holy crap, a campus club." We turned towards High Street, campus's main drag. "Seems like yesterday, yet forever ago." Nostalgic, I remembered the Friedrich Hayek Free Enterprise Club I belonged to, where we'd hatch evil plots to send granola-munching snowflakes into meltdown.

Hillarious, and easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Gotta love owning the libs.