He was standing by his car when she came through the gate.
She saw him before he saw her — he had his back partially turned, doing something with the side pocket of his backpack, and she had the brief, unguarded seconds of being able to look before he registered her. She used them without meaning to.
He was dressed the way she had never seen him dressed — not the trousers and collared shirts of Room 214, not the composed, deliberate presentation of a teacher in front of a class. He wore black basketball shorts that fell past the knee, the silk of them shifting slightly in the December breeze, and a black t-shirt — fitted enough that it was honest about what was underneath it. His arms were out. She had seen his forearms before, the rolled sleeve of a school day, but not this — not the fu
