The Kind of Dream You Have Near the End of the Spring Semester

When the mediocre male student defends the mediocre female student against my utterly fair grading mainly because he loves her and is desperate for her to return his love, it’s a sad chivalry but one I secretly applaud while outwardly chastising him for interfering where he has no business, flooding him with such guilt that he cuts out his own tongue, which floods me with such guilt that I search the streets for the tongue, in hopes of keeping it alive long enough to be reattached. I find it in a planter under dirt outside a coffee bar, a piece of jerky I put in my mouth to reanimate, later finding a cup of water where it softens and flaps in a promising way. The problem now is I can’t get my phone to show me his number. Hours pass as I try to figure this out. People stop by and try to help. A Middle Eastern dignitary passes in a motorcade. The dean would like a word with me. My daughter thinks I should just let it go. In a window of time between security shifts, three thugs come in and begin gathering my things nonchalantly, as though they are collecting trash and not robbing me. When I tell them there’s a tongue in there they drop everything and run. In the end, he shows up fluent as before, something about stem cells, he didn’t need the piece. The woman he loves still hasn’t done enough to earn the grade she wants. I want to tell him she will also never love him, that he is just a foot soldier on her chessboard, but I bite my tongue.