Professor Membrane Novels & Stories

He’s close now, he looks at me as if he’s studying me. “Higher, stretch.” His hand moving near my ribcage but not touching. “I need to see how the muscles look.” I stretch higher. His eyes track the movement of my body like he’s memorizing equations. “Turn slowly.” He takes a deep breath. “Something wrong, Professor?” “Your posture.” His voice sounds strained. “Your back curves here.” His finger runs down my back, the first time he’s touched me since I stripped. “Do you feel that?”

“It’s good to have multiple outlets. Art can be isolating sometimes.” “Is that why you became a professor?” I asked. “To be less isolated?” He considered this as he stirred the sauce. “Partly. Teaching forces me to engage with the world in ways I’d normally avoid.” He gave a lopsided, self-deprecating smile. “Though my colleagues would probably tell you I still don’t engage enough.” ‘Professor Julia seems to think you engage just fine.’ I thought to myself. “The sauce is almost ready. Would you mind setting the table? Plates are in the cabinet.”

I can see each muscle as she flexes, her calves high and tight as she balances on her four-inch heels. Just as I am sure one more step will make me fall over dead, the professor makes one last turn before stopping before a solid wood door. On a brass placard placed at about eye level, the word with the name 'Dr. Delilah M Davis is engraved. The number 225 is listed just above it with smaller, matching bras. Pulling a key from an inner jacket pocket, she jams it into the lock, twists, and with a quiet little click it swings open. Without saying a word, Professor Davis disappears inside.