The Math Building By Joey Comeau She wears glasses that are not too small. I wish I was a girl like that. I wear contact lenses because glasses make me look like I am wearing glasses. I am not saying this properly. When she wears glasses she looks so quiet, like a grenade with the pin still in. She is so small for her building. When she goes in the front door of the huge stone building I think about that cartoon I watched when I was a little girl, where giant robots are controlled by the children who ride them. If the math building stood up and walked around it would make me smile. I would throw rocks through her windows. No, that sounds wrong. I would stand underneath her, hoping for a big rock to fall and crush me. I think I am in love with her. Today she comes while I am making my morning round. I hold the door open for her, and smile. She smiles back and I stand holding the door while she walks down the hallway away from me. At her door she turns and looks at me again and she is still smiling. I run. On my next round I peek through her door to see her standing in front of a dozen students. She writes on the chalkboard. I can't even remember what chalk feels like. When I come for my afternoon round she is already gone. I don't get to hold the door for her. My picture is still in my pocket. That is okay though. I will take a better one tonight. It will be more perfect. I won't be afraid to give her it tomorrow. I let myself into her classroom and I take a picture of the chalkboard. I take three pictures, close up so I can see all of the symbols and numbers and letters. Her name is in this room. It's in the desk somewhere. Of course it is, but I want to know it from her. I don't want to find it. I want her to give me it. If she laughs at my picture, if she has me fired, I will still ask her what her name is. At home I look at the pictures on the computer and I take my marker and I write them upside down on my stomach, on my breasts. My breasts are small like hers. They are flat like a chalkboard. I put the camera on my dresser and I sit on my bed and I try to smile. When I print out the picture, I look like I just ate. In the morning I sit on the stairs where the window is. When she comes I run down to open the door for her. "Are you the doorman now?" she says, and she smiles at me. I put the envelope in her hand. I can hear her tearing it open while I walk up the stairs. There is no exit upstairs. When I look in her classroom later, she is writing on the chalkboard again and I let my weight rest against the door. The envelope is on her desk, open. The students bother me. They are all looking at her and they are seeing the wrong thing. I am supposed to finish my round. If I don't visit all the checkpoints, they will know I didn't. I have a schedule. I sit on the chair just outside her door until the students are gone, and then I go inside. The End