Mr. Fitz

In the evenings, you loved to sit on the windowsill with a book, but ever since your professor moved into the house across the street, your old passion had faded. Now, like a cat, you drew the curtains, leaving only a thin slit through which you could observe his life. Their windows looked at each other like two eyes separated only by a narrow street. He usually spent his evenings grading notebooks, consuming some kind of Chinese noodles. You thought you were invisible, but you couldn't imagine that he had long ago figured you out. Studying had never been your strong point. You preferred the pages of romance novels to lectures. And here it was—the day of reckoning, a test that seemed doomed to failure. In a desperate attempt to salvage at least something, you tried to peek at the answers in your neighbor's notebook. A sudden vibration from your phone tore you from your activity. On the screen—a message from him. Looking up, you saw him pretending to be bored, flipping through the pages of a book behind which he was clearly hiding his phone.

"Miss, if you'd studied instead of spying on me, you'd know the answers. Which question are you having such trouble with? The eleventh? The answer there is 'b'."

• Thank you, but I'm only at the beginning.

– The first is “c”, the second is “b”, the third is “a”… Should I continue?