The Professors Canvas

~Elena's POV~

The apartment door swings open before my key fully turns.

That's the first red flag.

David never, ever leaves doors unlocked. He treats safety like a full time job, he double-checks stove knobs, he labels leftovers, he arranges his shirts by color, sleeve length and he checks windows twice before bed.

After three years with him, I know his habits as well as the back of my hand, like I've learned quantum mechanics, with precision and absolute certainty.

The second wrong thing is the sound.

A moan, it sounds female. Definitely not from whatever boring documentary he usually watches on Monday afternoons.

My leather bag falls off my shoulder. It hits the hardwood with a sound that should make everything stop, but the moaning keeps going, like I'm not even there.

It sounds louder, too loud, too dramatic, like someone performing instead of feeling.

My heart pounds, not quickly, but heavily.

But my legs move forward anyway.

Every step feels heavy and slow, like walking through thick water.

The door is cracked open. Through that narrow gap, I see skin.

Too much of it. David's pale back thrusting, moving in a way I recognize because I've felt it against my own body.

His hands gripping the sheets. His voice low, mixed with another voice, high, breathy.

Beneath him, her red hair is on my pillow.

The pillow I've slept on every weekend for a year, I stand there watching my boyfriend fuck another woman in the bed we picked out together at IKEA.

It's Rebecca, my lab partner.

The girl who borrowed my notes last week and returned them with a coffee stain  then said "thanks babe" like we were friends.

I don't scream. I don't cry, I don't even breathe for a few seconds.

I just stand there, staring at the two people who decided my feelings didn't matter.

Five long seconds.Then I push the door open, it makes an opening sound.

David's head snaps around. His face drains of color. 

"Elena fuck...this isn't..."

"Save it." My voice sounds strange, flat. "Rebecca, my thesis notes are on the kitchen counter, go get them for me."

She grabs the sheet, eyes wide. "Elena, I'm so sorry, we didn't mean..."

"The notes. Now!!!."

She runs out, naked, tripping over David's jeans. He's trying to pull on his boxers, words coming out. "Baby, please, let me explain. It was a mistake, the few minutes of whatever this was meant nothing. It meant nothing. I love you..."

"You love me?" I laugh, and it sounds sharp enough to cut. "You love routine, you love order. You love being the golden couple everyone envies. 

I shake my head. "You don't love me. You never did."

Rebecca appears with my folder, holding it out like a white flag. Her face is red with shame. I take it and turn to leave.

David runs after me to the front door, reaching out but not daring to touch me.

"Where are you going?" David follows me to the front door. "Elena, we need to talk about this. You can't just walk away."

I look at him, really look at him. His perfectly trimmed hair is messy for the first time in... years, maybe.

His eyes are wide, but it's not heartbreak I see. It's fear of losing control and not losing me. Fear of being the bad guy, fear of ruining the image he built for himself.

I step back. "Watch me." I close the door before he can say anything else.

The bar is called El Refugio. I find it three blocks from David's apartment, down a narrow street I've never noticed before. 

Inside, everything feels softer, dark wood, soft lights, jazz playing low. A place made for disappearing.

I slide into a stool and order whiskey. I drink it fast.

Then I order another. My hands are shaking, but the burn helps.

"Rough day?"

The voice is deep, smooth. I turn to my left.

He's older than me, maybe early forties. Dark hair with silver at the ends. Expensive watch, a face that's seen things, done things. Not handsome in David's polished way. Handsome in a way that makes my pulse kick for a stranger.

"You could say that." I drain my glass again.

He signals the bartender, orders two more. "I'm a good listener."

"I don't need a listener. I need to forget."

His expression softens with something that looks like understanding. Real understanding, not the rehearsed sympathy David always gave. 

His eyes, deep brown, almost black, staring back at me. The man leans in slightly, not invading, just existing closer.

"I can help with that too," he says.

Normally, I'd think twice, ask questions, and act more responsibly.

But I'm so tired of pretense, tired of holding back, tired of being predictable, tired of being the girl who always plays safe.

"Should we go to your place or a hotel?" I ask.

His eyes widen a bit  in surprise, maybe. "Hotel. Ten minutes from here."

We stay silent in the cab. His hand rests on my thigh, pressing through my jeans. I let him, letting his touch erase thoughts of David.

I lean into him, let his touch fill the broken spaces inside me.

The hotel room is elegant. I don't see much of it.

He kisses me before the door fully closes, and it's nothing like David's careful, scheduled intimacy. This is raw and consuming.

His hands are in my hair, on my waist, pulling me closer like he's starved for touch, pulling my shirt over my head.

I reach for his belt, needing something solid to hold on to.

I need him closer, harder, and I need to feel something other than the pain inside me.

I don't hesitate and grab it directly on the head. 

We don't make it to the bed the first time.

Later, tangled in sheets that smell nice and like him, he drags a finger down my back. His breath warms my shoulder.

 "What's your name?" he asks.

I face the ceiling. "Does it matter?"

"No." He kisses my shoulder. "I suppose it doesn't."

I leave at dawn while he's still asleep. No note. No number. No names.

Just a stranger who helped me forget for one night.

On Monday morning, I'm five minutes late to Renaissance Art, the elective I'm only taking because David said it would "round out my CV."

I quietly sit in the back row, avoiding everyone's eyes. My whole body feels tired, and my heart feels empty.

The professor is writing on the board with strong, sure strokes, his back turned.

"Professor Mateo Sandoval" a student called. He turns around, about to answer the student and our eyes meet.

My breath stops. I can't believe my eyes.

Because standing in front of the class is the man who kissed me like he owned the night, the man I left in a hotel bed this morning...is my professor, the new visiting professor.

And he looks just as shocked as I feel.

Then his expression changes, it hardens. Like recognition is the last thing he wanted.

And I know... my life is about to get even more complicated.