minimousie
I never liked my English teacher. Not only did her breath smell like dirty cat litter, but she always insisted on leaning in way too close when she was showing you something in a text book.
She was in her late fourties; frumpy and hairy, and wore Coke-bottle glasses. She wasn't horrible-looking, she just didn't try. I know she was brilliant, though-- she had a PHd in two things. *Two*, and she was only fourty-six, at the most.
But the curriculum didn't really require her to use her full potential as a teacher. I don't know why she didn't become a college professor, but it really wasn't my business to ask.
So, for an entire semester, I dealt with cat-litter-breath woman, until I finally couldn't handle her intrusive and yucky demeanor anymore, and I transferred to a different class. What I thought was a better class.
I learned this morning that she died. I pass her classroom every morning, and my heart sinks. Her cat-litter breath and hair was a side-effect of her illness.
And now I know what it truly feels like to be an asshole...
...and I miss her.