In woodshop Stacy sat on his bench, leaning over his workstation, and watched the languid way Darian moved around the room. He watched Darian’s hands, hidden in work gloves but quick to catch a falling two-by-four or straighten the blade of a table saw. When he stood next to someone, those hands went into the front of his leather apron. They pushed his cap off from time to time, rubbed at his bald scalp and tugged the hat back on again, but they never touched another student. Only me, Stacy thought. He imagined those large hands splayed open on his lower belly, the rough fingertips rubbing gently through kinked hair. His stomach fluttered at the thought.
Beside him, a thin dowel poked into his upper arm. “Hello?” Jennifer poked him a second time. “Why am I the only one working here?”
Sta
