Tears

I'm standing in the dean's office, hanging my head in shame. He's bawling me out for some scrape I've gotten into, and the truth is it was in really poor taste. It's all my fault, I'm sorry, and I'll never do anything like it again. But I'm not hearing a word he says. My ears are buzzing and the only thought that fills my entire head is how badly I want a tissue right now. A whole box would be nice, the softer the better.

Because ever since the dean started yelling, and I realized how caught I was, tears have been running down my face nonstop. It is unbearably embarrassing, and the dean seems to think that is a good thing; I should be embarrassed of what I've done. But I'm more embarrassed of blubbering all over his office, within earshot of the secretary and the teachers' lounge. And of having to leave the office with my tear-streaked face and having to stumble all the way to the bathroom while trying to convince all my prying schoolmates that I'm fine. And this is all I can think of, even if he were actually saying something meaningful.

And then my nose starts running. By the time I taste the snot in my mouth, I am thinking beyond my own embarrassment and discomfort. I'm thinking how absolutely evil it is to imprison a young woman in an office with no tissues and no way out for as long as it takes for the dean to let off his steam.