It’s hot, it’s boiling… My God it’s scorching in here! I can’t take it anymore! I want to rip off this white blouse and hear the breaking of its delicately woven seams; the call to which my Tarzan will respond. Or rather, he might simply swing by this Godforsaken classroom which attributes more of its resemblance to Dante’s Inferno rather than a most scholarly and erudite environment reserved for the brightest, most innovative of minds of our soon-to-be future leaders.
My God, now I’m even starting to sound like one of them. As Monsieur le professeur continues to so interestingly divulge about the anatomy of the mouth and the position of the tongue when pronouncing typical French phonemes such as /e/ and /ɛ/, I can’t help but look at his widespread grin as he licks his lips after each articulately pronounced syllable. His teeth are a staled yellow; the colour of a sporadic smoker who, despite his several attempts at quitting, can’t resist the sweet sound of his cheap lighter bringing rise to its iridescent flame which unfailingly makes love to the tip of a long, suave and perfectly smooth cigarette. His smile, one of both innocence and playful mischief certainement knows how to beguilingly charm my fellow camarades who, whilst listening ever so carefully to the lesson, are rubbing sweat off from their foreheads and playing with their deliciously artificial strawberry-flavoured gum by pulling at it with their long, acrylic nails. Pop! There goes that bubble you’ve been so laboriously concentrated on creating; her and the way her plump, ruby red lips smirk at Monsieur’s each and every phrase.
She takes out her mirror to precisely reapply the rouge and meticulously rubs her lips together in a state of matrimonial intimacy. Due to the classroom’s perversely petit size, I’m unavoidably glued right next to her. I smell her overwhelmingly pungent perfume, I hear her bangles tap against the desk each time she picks up her pen and I see her feline eyes scrupulously target her next prey. She asks le Monsieur: “S’il vous plaît, pourriez-vous ouvrir un peu la fenêtre, il fait tellement chaud ici, non?”
The gentle hush of the wind brings upon a most exuberant moan; garments of clothing majestically dance from one desk to the other, hair elastics are ferociously pulled off to free a wild tame of long flowing hair and laughs—oh such free-spirited liveliness! The growling wind’s pace quickens and the crescendo of the banging window against the frame deafens my ability to think, my desire to learn, my willingness to concentrate; albeit the alarming epiphany of liberal consciousness soon subsides. The window, now closed, leaves my wonderingly curious thoughts astray and I’m once again confined to the inescapable realm of obsolete despair: the classroom—oh what a heavenly utopia!