Many years have passed

I stood behind the reading desk. To the students of St. Jude’s, I was the enigmatic Mistress of Literature, a woman of shadows, lace, and sharp rebukes. My black hair, a waist-length waterfall of midnight curls.

"If any of you had bothered to actually read the syllabus, you would know that existentialism isn't an excuse for your pathetic lack of punctuation," I said, my voice low.

I adjusted the lace at my cuffs, feeling the subtle crinkle of the diaper beneath my heavy skirts. It was a secret I carried like a lead weight—a thirty-five-year-old woman who still woke up wet every two or three mornings.

I have UI, I’ve been told by doctors it is something that happens… well at least on women over 60, but me? I’ve always had urinary incontinence!.

The baby blue print, featuring tiny yellow ducks and white clouds, was currently snug against my hips, hidden under my black long skirt.

My gaze drifted to the third row, landing on Raphael. He was twenty-one, with eyes like bruised plums and a mouth that always looked like it was tasting something bitter. He was beautiful and I knew, with a thrill of predatory heat, that he watched me with more than just academic interest. I could see the way his eyes tracked the rise and fall of my chest—or rather, the rise and fall of the silicone padding I used to create the illusion of a DD-cup bust.

"Professor?"

A hand went up. It was Valeria. She was the antithesis of everything I represented—bright, blonde, and perpetually dressed in neon athletic wear that made my eyes ache. She sat next to Raphael, her thigh pressing against his, a silent claim of territory I despised.

"Yes, Valeria? Do try to make it relevant," I snapped.

"I just wondered if you ever get tired of the costume," she said, her smile sharp and predatory. "It’s so… committed."