“The function of x is equal to the summation of x to the nth power minus 15.”

What exactly is a function, anyway?  For two months, 3 days, and 3.4 hours, since the beginning of the semester, I’ve been sitting in calculus, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.  I really hate math.  I honestly and truly do.

Then why is it I know exactly how long I’ve been in class if I hate it so much, you may ask?

The reason I know that I’ve been sitting in calculus for two months, three days, and now 3.5 hours is because that is how long I’ve been staring at the back of her head.  That’s how long I’ve been watching her long hair swing back and forth over her tan shoulders.  That’s how long I’ve been watching her graceful neck and gorgeous eyes as she bends over her desk taking notes.  I know that right before she asks a question she bites the corner of her lip and furrows her brow.  I know that she’s so much smarter than she lets on, not that she pretends to be dumb.  I know that she’s one of the last to leave class every day, always asking the professor questions after the lecture, and one of the first to hand in her exams. 

This may or may not qualify me as a stalker. 

Not really, though.  I think that in order to be a stalker you have to have malicious intent.  And let me just say, there is absolutely nothing malicious about my intent.  In fact, I don’t even know what my intent is.  If you were to ask me why I’ve been staring at her for the previously mentioned time, I couldn’t tell you why.  All I know is that every time our eyes connect, I feel it in my entire body.  My breathing hitches and I inevitably stumble over whatever I’m doing, whether it be writing or walking or talking; it doesn’t matter.  All that matters at that second is how and why those deep eyes are meeting mine.

None of these feelings though make sense, because I’m straight.  As an arrow.  Straighty McStraighterson.  That’s me.  I have a boyfriend back home who is crazy for me and he’s a great time.  I care for him quite a bit.  Dylan and I have even talked about getting married one day, after we get out of college.  I know that he’s right for me and he’s everything that a boyfriend should be.  I know that my parents love him and that he could probably give me a very happy life.

I also know that it’s not his face that flashes through my mind late at night when my back is arching and my toes are curling, when my head is thrown back and my hand is nestled between my thighs.   I know that it’s not him that I’m kissing in the dreams that I wake up from in the middle of the night, panting and sweating and utterly confused.

I guess I don’t know anything at all, really.

Except one thing.  Her name.

Her name is Ashley.