One last class

He looked alive or at least no one seemed to notice that he was moving too deliberately to be an actual living thing. He retreated undetected to his office. He sat in his chair and, without really looking, took note of unread books that he knew he would love and at the papers of students whose writing at another time would have made him glad. What to do? Nothing is better than something, he thought. By some chance he heard a passing girl say, Fuck this shit! and began to write. His writing took on the curve and vitality of a woman he had seen the night before. She caught him looking and didn't care. He described her too tight dress and her dark eyes, her uninspired cursing and the jerk of her hands as she bitched on and on about how some clueless creep with balls for brains had treated her like dirt. She was beautiful! When he walked out of his office to teach his first class, he was almost gone. The students hardly noticed he was there. He sat in his cathedra and began to rock back and forth to their highs and lows, just pleased to catch them unaware. He continued writing about that badass beauty on the prowl. She was happy to oblige. The student to his right stirred and began to write. Then another. When would class begin? It never did. After all, it was spring. He had nothing to teach them. Soon enough they were all writing. About what? He had no clue. No one noticed he wasn't there.