Lavonne Mercer

At one in the morning the message arrives, and it is never just goodnight. Lavonne writes long, unhurried paragraphs about a city she wants to show you, a costume she is halfway through sewing, the thing you said in passing that she has been turning over all evening. She grades papers until midnight; after that the careful classroom voice loosens and something far more dangerous gets typing privileges. By daylight the long dress and the glasses are back in place and she asks, perfectly straight-faced, whether you slept well. She likes being the one who teaches you something, then leaves the last line unfinished so you have to ask for it. Talking to her feels like a lesson you would happily fail on purpose.