THE head of school stood under a tree on the edge of the car park at the university.
I watched from an office window and wondered what he was doing.
Normally I would see him at important meetings, where he would impart important directives to his staff, about important things.
Loitering at the edge of a car park was not usual activity for someone so Important. He looked, I thought, furtive.
As I watched, a black limousine with tinted windows pulled up and an elegant woman got out of the back and walked toward him.
She was impossibly glamorous, with milky white skin and deep black hair.
She wore vertiginously high shoes with the pointiest of points and red soles, a scarlet, tight fitting silk dress with a very low neckline and a long strand of pearls.
Her fingers glinted with rings. A pink shawl fluttered behind her as she swept up to him. He leaned forward and they kissed.
Her long shiny hair swung over their faces.
Gosh. I thought.
The driver of the limousine got out and stood at the side of the car.
Music and laughter rolled out of the limousine. The driver had the build of a Pacific Islander rugby player.
The kind you don’t mess with. He wore a black trilby hat and sunglasses that obscured his face.
His tight white t-shirt bulged over massive biceps and partly covered what looked to be tribal tattoos.
His tight black trousers squeezed into city slick shoes.
The head of school and the woman talked earnestly, then they both turned toward the car.
The driver opened the door and they got in.
The car sat on the road, pulsing with music for another few minutes before gliding effortlessly off toward the top of the hill.
Did that just happen?
I thought to myself or did I get…
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