The next morning, when the two met in the hall, Marco walked past Marisa in a hurry and nodded without stopping. She entered the classroom with simmering thoughts and couldn't concentrate on anything. As she completed trigonometry exercises (she got them all wrong), Marisa kept asking herself: hadn't he read her message yet? Or maybe he had, and found it annoying? brusque? conceited? disappointing? exasperating? foolish? gauche? hilarious? infantile...? Oh dear. She could go through the whole dictionary and would never know.

The next-to-last class was literature. Marisa pretended to pay attention to Marco's explanations, all the while scrutinizing him to see if he looked at her in any different way. The teacher remained perfectly neutral. In truth, Marisa had the impression he hardly looked at her. As the class neared the end, she thought of going to the front of the room to speak with Marco and probe his reaction. Why not? The situation couldn't get any worse.

Soon Marco was gathering his belongings and getting ready to leave the classroom. Marisa stared at him, uncertain, her throat dry, her heart pounding. She had only a few seconds left to make a move. Marco had already closed his briefcase and was drawing away from the desk. In a flash, Marisa stood up and advanced amid the chairs, while furiously trying to come up with a question to ask the teacher... Desperation suggested the perfect question: Marco had mentioned the sensation caused by the Modern Art Week of 1922 for breaking paradigms, and that included the fact that composer Villa Lobos wore one shoe and one slipper at the event.

Very well, what was the meaning of that slipper? The mismatched footwear could signify, for example, either the fusion or contrast between the cushioned art of the elite and the spontaneous art of the streets, providing the perfect pretext to extend the conversation in case Marco was open to that. Good job, Marisa! She had barely congratulated herself though, when a mule at full gallop seized her carrot: Camila. Within one second, the girl monopolized Marco's attention. Indignant, Marisa hesitated, returned to her seat and watched the scene.

Camila was an older classmate nicknamed "Edible" by the other students, due to her curves and the habit of wearing provocative clothes to enhance them. La Edible always found an excuse to attend literature classes (like now, for instance) in some low-collar top, which served as a shop window to her pale bosom with a scandalous golden pendant anchored on it. So she, her cleavage and the pendant asked Marco why composer Villa Lobos had showed up at the Modern Art Week with a shoe in one foot and a slipper in the other. And as Camila spoke, she seductively played with her long brown hair; hair that would have been pulverized should irate stares possess minimal pulverizing power (for it was such a stare that Marisa addressed the girl upon hearing her question).

Laughing, Marco explained that the fact was interpreted as an affront to the audience, when in reality Villa Lobos had worn the slipper due to an inflamed callus. Marco left the room followed closely by Camila, who remained by his side like a guard dog and now was asking... Marisa couldn't hear the question because the two vanished into the hallway. Shortly afterwards, the physics teacher entered the room and grunted his way to the board as usual. Camila returned a little later and was subjected to a terrible lecture, which offered Marisa some consolation.

Nevertheless, Marisa was furious. She just couldn't decide if she was more furious at herself or at Valentina. Taking advantage that the teacher had his back to the students, she sent a text message to the friend.

Marco is acting weird with me. Why did you have to give me that stupid piece of advice?

Seated on the chair next to hers, Valentina tried without success to pay attention to class. As soon as she heard her cell phone beep, she read the message and, concealing a smile, typed:

Don't be melodramatic. I warned you not to send anything compromising.

Yeah, you warned me AFTER you had advised me to send something compromising, countered Marisa.

Calm down. If what you showed me was all you've sent, it's no biggie, wrote Valentina.

It may be no biggie to you, Marisa retorted, irritated. But Marco... I have no idea of what goes on in his head.

You know what, Ma? I thought what you wrote was kinda cool.

Suspicious, Marisa gave her friend a sidelong glance. Valentina raised her eyebrows, shrugged and reciprocated it with an innocent look.

Val, you're a liar. Now you're trying to slip away.

Seriously, Ma, it was cool. Read it again and analyze it.

Marisa didn't need to read it. She knew it by heart: Marco, I like this phrase by Sartre: "To caress with the eyes and to desire are one and the same." — Marisa.

Valentina could say whatever she wanted, it was no use. The more Marisa thought about it, the worse her embarrassment. Marco taught them classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so the next day there would be no literature class for them. Luckly. That way, maybe Marco would forget about her message and things could go back to normal. Maybe, who knows, in the meantime some major event would take place to divert his attention? Like a fire in the school or a nuclear war...

Nonetheless, if Marisa believed she could avoid an encounter with the teacher the following day, she was mistaken. The two bumped into each other in the hallway, and this time Marco paused to talk to her. Here, it's important to remember Einstein's wise words: time is relative. It varies according to the rhythm of one's heart.

In that moment, time unfolded in slow motion before Marisa. It could have accelerated to a blink of an eye, given her anxiety in finding herself suddenly face to face with Marco. Surprise, nevertheless, rendered Marisa dumbfounded, and all time could do was reduce its own rate while she remained in suspension.

Marco's attention was fixed on her face. Marisa caught the hint of a smile spread throughout his countenance. No neutrality was left there. The mouth then displayed the row of white teeth, the eyes softened. Marco searched her face with an eloquence that Marisa couldn't decide if it was amusement or curiosity. Or both. Without realizing it, she blushed.

Marisa drew her gaze away from his face as she followed the hands opening the black leather briefcase and producing a printed copy. Marco extended a couple of stapled sheets to her, and Marisa stared at the upside-down letters, which in her eyes resembled tiny ants carrying secret messages on their backs. Next, she was lost in another eternity while contemplating the dark hands that neared her body preceded by white sheets of paper...

Then two girls approached Marco.

Time jerked back into its habitual march, suddenly pervaded by the hallway rustle, by the grayish sky framed in the window, by the cold lights on the ceiling.

"This is the text you've requested," he said, filling her hands with paper before turning to her classmates.

With the sheets clutched in her hands, a perplexed Marisa levitated away in the corridor.

She hadn't requested anything from the teacher.

___________________________________________________________

Hmmm, we're heading somewhere here.

Maybe now they will make out in the empty classroom. And then... and again... once more... oooohh...

I already told you. Out. Of the gutter. NOW!

And vote, of course ;-)