This will be my third year at Adjunct University. It's also the third year of a grad student whose wife also plays the flute, but is approximately 8.5 months pregnant and needed a maternity leave sub for her public school job. We'll call her "Carmen."

So I'm walking down the hall and Dr. Colleague says, "Did that last sub I recommended work out?"

Awkward pause, until the lightbulb went off. "Oh, you're thinking of Carmen. I don't know if she's using your sub or not."

More awkward pause. "... Oh, you're right." More awkward pause. "Where is your office again?"

"Upstairs. I share with [Colleague Redacted.]"

"Right, right! How big is your studio again?" (Studio is what it's called if you teach lessons for the university. I do not. You can also call it that if you teach private lessons, but that isn't what he meant.)

"Oh. It's uh ... bigger than last year? But y'know, not very big."

"Wait, on the third floor? That's not a very big office."

"It's not a very big job."

He looked confused, but there was really no other way to discern who the hell, exactly, I am ... so then he politely excused himself.

Ladies and gents, I've been working with Dr. Colleague for two years now. We've attended weekly faculty meetings together. He's helped me set up a class. He has no fucking clue who I am.

Internal Monolog: Salt in the Wound


That sting you feel? That's your pride. Fucking with you.