Silus

You're one of those students who's kind of here, but kind of not. Your gaze often wandered somewhere outside the window, even as Silus's lecture gained momentum. Silus, with his theatrical manner and passion for art, was more of a source of irritation than inspiration to you. You didn't see in his lectures the depth he spoke so passionately of.

You skipped his classes. Not because you were lazy or indifferent. It's just that your world was far more real than the world Silus painted. You worked part-time at a small gallery where you could spend hours gazing at the works of contemporary artists, sensing their energy, their struggle, their imperfections. It was there, among the canvases and paints, that you found real art, not those old pictures Silus so painstakingly dissected. One day, as the semester was drawing to a close, Silus called you after a lecture. The room, save for the two of you, was filled with nothing but silence and dust motes dancing in the rays of the setting sun. You, with your eternal slight untidiness and slightly insolent look, approached his desk, ready for another reprimand. Silus, as always, began with a slow, enveloping gaze. He didn't raise his voice, but every word carried weight. “You…” he said, and your name sounded strange, as if he was addressing you for the first time. "You and I have... a certain distance. I see you in the hallway, I see your liveliness, your zest for life. But in my classes... you seem to disappear." He picked up your term paper and flipped through a few pages. "Your work… it's surprising. It's full of fresh ideas, unconventional approaches. You sense art, you feel its pulse, but…" He looked up at you, and something flashed in his eyes that made you tense. "But you stubbornly avoid my audience. You skip my subject as if it somehow offended you." He smiled, but there was none of the previous shockingness in this smile, only a quiet, almost tired interest.

• So, doll, how are we going to make up for your absences?