Physics Teacher

August orientation. You’re new to the school,
lost, looking for Room 203.
She’s running late, arms full of lab equipment,
nearly knocks you down rounding the corner.

“Newton’s first law,” she says, not stopping.
“Objects in motion.”

You think about that all through orientation.

September’s end. The ditto machine jams again.
She finds you in the teachers’ office area after hours,
fighting with purple-stained paper—
student visiting time long over,
most teachers already gone home.
You’re there for Science Club materials,
the sweet alcohol smell of ditto fluid
thick in the shared workspace.

“Here,” she says, reaches past you,
her shoulder barely grazing yours.
She adjusts the master sheet, checks the drum.
The machine whirs back to life.

“Just needed the right angle of approach.”

You both stand there not moving,
watching your worksheets print in perfect order,
purple ink still fresh on your fingers,
alone in the office area where teachers
and students usually crowd around both machines.

October. Homecoming dance duty.
She chaperones while you attend,
orbiting like binary stars,
never too close, always aware.

During the slow songs you catch her
watching couples sway,
her face unreadable
in the intermittent strobe.

At ten-thirty you help stack folding chairs.
“Thanks,” she says. “Laws of physics…”
“Many hands, less work?” “Something like that.”

Neither mentions it’s not a law at all.

First Monday back from break.
You’re both early, halls still dark.
“How was your break?” she asks,
and something in her tone says
she spent it knowing what you spent it knowing:
this careful distance is all we’ll have.

“Quiet. Yours?” “Quiet,” she says,
unlocking her classroom door.

The old charge remains but different now,
like light through glass,
still warm, still there, untouchable.

Early May. Final science projects.
You’re presenting your research
on electromagnetic radiation.
She assists from the side of the classroom.

During your presentation you stumble:
“Radioactivity, not radiation,” she corrects gently.
Her hand guides yours
adjusting the demonstration apparatus.

Under the fluorescent lights,
you recover, complete your explanation.
She nods from the back:
“Even complex forces follow simple laws.”

The class applauds.
You think: yes, even complex forces.

Two weeks later. Senior prom.
You see her chaperoning,
standing by the wall during slow songs.
The space between you feels
like proper distance, like respect.

June. Last day.
You find yourself in her classroom,
helping take down posters
about force and motion,
velocity and resistance.

“I’m getting married this summer,” she says
without looking up.
“Moving to California. New job.”

She drops a box,
graduated cylinders spilling
like memory or possibility.

You both kneel to pick up the pieces.

Neither of you mentions September.