Square root

Autumn comes at us with gusts and bravado, kicking up sand and dirt. The trees are stripped and Jack treads on the leaves to feel the crunch. Luke Broadwater died in surgery but there were no tears left; Amanda Flowers took a month off school. When she came back her eyes were dark and her face hollow.

The teacher came into the room somewhat hesitantly. She whispers to the class to begin the exercises for the day, plonking texts thick as bibles on the desks.
All over it like yellow peril, Jack thinks to himself.
Her perfume stings the back of their nostrils. Amanda opens the book with a sigh, next to him. Since Luke, she had begun to see herself in Jack. There was no point kicking her while she’s down, he thought. She used to be beautiful, before grief’s ugly hand had taken hold. Girls used to attach themselves to her like lint.
Today we’re working with square roots, comes the whisper over the scratching of chalk. Amanda writes “Square Root” at the top of her page, as Jack makes his numbers do rope tricks. She kept drawing over “Root” until it was thick blue. The class begins to chatter and the teacher patrols the room. Jack’s numbers do aerobics in front of him. And still she tracing over “Root.” And then he feels her touching his dick.
Bugger off! he cries out in surprise.
Her chair falls to the ground as she storms from the room.
Umm. I’ll... he fumbles at the teacher, before pushing through the doors into the empty hall.
At the end she stands with her back to him. As he pulls her around the full force of those empty eyes slaps him square across the face. Before he can say, bloody hell! she’s pulled him into the boys toilets and kicked off her undies. Her face is wet with saliva and tears, as she probes her tongue into his mouth like the first fleet. The cubicle is small, and shrinking. Moments of fleeting lust are graffitied on the flaking paint. She stuffs his hand up under her skirt. He feels her stickiness. And the cubicle is shrinking. His breath is heavy and his shirt clings to his back. Her hand fishes into his pants and grabs at his dick. And the cubicle is shrinking. She pulls him into her. It feels like the world has stopped: that first intrusion. The Earth has stopped spinning on its axis and the universe has stopped twisting and folding. But then he’s back in that shrinking cubicle as she fucks at the grief. And still the cubicle is shrinking. Her hips grind into his, wanting more than he can give. Her nails claw at his back as his pace quickens. The cubicle is almost upon them, but still it shrinks and shrinks and shrinks. He feels all the energy in his body pool around his dick and shoots inside her. She wriggles around on his limp dick for a moment before unsaddling and putting her undies back on. Without so much as a word she shoots shame up at with those empty eyes, and leaves him standing there with a stupid look on his face and his red, flaccid dick. He feels as dirty as the tiny, tiny cubicle.