Curriculum Vitae (And Other Works of Fiction)

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There are three things one must understand about a staff room.

First: it is not a place of rest. It is a theater.

Second: every performance is unsolicited.

And third: the least competent actors are always the loudest.

I am halfway through annotating a paper—an earnest but structurally confused attempt at Gothic analysis—when the door swings open with all the subtlety of a collapsed thesis statement.

“Ugh, I cannot with third period,” she announces.

Miss Elodie Vance.

Of course.

I do not look up. Attention is currency, and I do not spend frivolously.

“Elodie,” someone says, already weary. “Indoor voice.”

“I am using my indoor voice,” she insists, dropping into a chair. “They’re just, like… impossible. No engagement, no energy—it’s like teaching ghosts.”

“How unfortunate,” I murmur, still writing. “One would think that ideal for someone struggling to maintain control of a classroom.”

A pause.

Then a soft choke of laughter from somewhere to my left.

Elodie exhales sharply. “Wow. Okay. Good morning to you too, Diana.”

I glance up, just briefly.

Perfect makeup. Impeccable hair. Expression carefully curated to suggest effortlessness rather than the effort it clearly requires.

Her life is performance. Her problem is inconsistency.

“Good morning,” I reply. “Do try to keep it that way.”

She dislikes me.

This is not unique.

What is unique is her particular fixation.

It began, as these things often do, with curiosity.

Then speculation.

Then—inevitably—projection.

“I heard you’re married,” she says now, leaning forward like she’s about to uncover something meaningful.

“I am.”

“You never talk about him.”

“I rarely talk about anything irrelevant.”

A small smile spreads across her face. “So he’s a secret?”

“No,” I say calmly. “He’s private.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” I repeat, “it isn’t.”

She learns nothing from this.

They rarely do.

Instead, she pivots—as predictable as poor grammar.

“Well, I mean… someone said he’s younger?”

Ah.

There it is.

The room stills—not obviously, not dramatically, but perceptibly. Conversations soften. Ears sharpen.

How quaint.

I set my pen down.

“And if he were?” I ask.

She shrugs, feigning casual interest. “I just think it’s interesting, you know? Like… don’t you feel like you missed out on things?”

There’s a murmur of agreement from someone who will regret it shortly.

“Missed out,” I repeat.

“Yeah! Like, dating around, experimenting, figuring out what you want before settling down.” She gestures vaguely. “Normal milestones.”

Normal.

Such a fragile word.

I fold my hands neatly on the table.

“Tell me, Miss Vance,” I say, voice soft enough that she has to lean in to hear me, “how many of those ‘milestones’ resulted in outcomes you would describe as successful?”

She blinks. “I—well, that’s not—”

“And how many,” I continue, “were merely repetitions of the same mistake with different participants?”

A tighter pause.

“I think that’s kind of judgmental—”

“I think,” I say, “it is observational.”

She recovers quickly. I’ll grant her that.

Confidence without substance is remarkably resilient.

“Well, at least I have experience,” she says lightly. “I mean, no offense, but if you’ve only been with one person…”

Ah.

There’s the shape of it.

Not curiosity.

Validation-seeking.

I lean back slightly, studying her the way one studies a flawed argument.

“You believe quantity produces clarity,” I say.

“It does,” she replies, too quickly.

“No,” I correct. “It produces data. Interpretation is a separate skill.”

A few people look down at their phones. One pretends to be very interested in a stapler.

Elodie laughs, a touch forced. “Okay, but like… don’t you ever wonder? What else is out there?”

I consider that.

Truly.

Then I answer honestly.

“No.”

Silence settles.

Not uncomfortable—on my end.

On hers, it curdles.

“You’re serious?” she says. “You’ve never even thought about it?”

“I am capable of thought, yes.”

She huffs. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m aware.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“You assume a lack of curiosity,” I continue, “because you mistake contentment for limitation.”

Her expression flickers.

“And you assume experience equates to growth,” I add, “because you have yet to achieve either.”

That lands.

The conversation fractures after that.

It always does.

People drift. Papers shuffle. Someone mutters about coffee.

Elodie, however, remains.

Of course she does.

“You know,” she says, quieter now, “people talk.”

“I encourage it,” I reply. “It reveals far more about them than it does about me.”

“They think it’s… weird.”

“They are free to think incorrectly.”

She leans closer. “They think you, like… groomed him.”

Ah.

There it is.

Not curiosity.

Not even insecurity.

Just vulgarity dressed as concern.

I meet her gaze fully now.

Cold.

Measured.

Precise.

“How fortunate,” I say softly, “that their thoughts have no bearing on reality.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“It didn’t warrant one.”

She opens her mouth.

Closes it.

Tries again.

“So what, he just—what? Fell into your lap?”

I almost smile.

“No,” I say. “He grew.”

She frowns. “That’s… not better.”

“It is accurate.”

I pick up my pen again.

“I knew him when he was small,” I continue, almost idly. “Quiet. Observant. Already more discerning than most adults I encounter now.”

Her expression shifts—confusion, then discomfort.

“And then,” I say, “he became someone who could choose.”

I glance up.

“He chose me.”

That should end it.

It doesn’t.

Because she cannot leave well enough alone.

“So you just skipped everything?” she presses. “No dating phase, no figuring things out, no—”

“No inefficiency,” I correct.

“That’s not inefficiency, that’s life!”

“That is your life,” I say. “Do not universalize it.”

What happens next is not my doing.

This is important.

I do not push.

I do not escalate.

I simply… allow.

“Well, excuse me for having a normal relationship history,” she snaps. “Sorry I didn’t, like, imprint on someone as a kid—”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from across the room.

Ah.

There it is.

The moment.

The line crossed not by me—but by her.

I say nothing.

I don’t need to.

By the end of the week, she is gone.

Not dramatically.

Not even publicly.

Just… removed.

A pattern of complaints.

Unprofessional conduct.

Boundary violations.

Inconsistent performance.

It accumulates.

It always does.

Human hubris rarely exists in isolation.

The following Monday, the staff room is quieter.

Cleaner.

Someone has taken her chair.

No one mentions her.

They never do, once the outcome is inevitable.

That evening, I return home.

The house greets me with its usual, perfect stillness.

Beckett is in the living room, exactly where I expect him to be—half-hidden behind his screens, masked, contained.

He glances up as I enter.

“You’re home early.”

“A cancellation.”

He nods, accepting that without question.

He always does.

I set my things aside and walk over, resting a hand lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re tense,” I note.

“I read an article.”

“…Why?”

“I regret it.”

“Of course you do.”

I sit beside him.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then:

“They were talking about us again,” I say.

He stiffens slightly. “Define ‘they.’”

“Collectively. Irrelevantly.”

“…Ah.”

A pause.

“Does it bother you?” he asks.

“No.”

Another pause.

“It used to,” he admits quietly.

I turn to him.

He doesn’t meet my eyes—he rarely does—but he leans, just slightly, closer.

“They said I missed out too,” he adds.

“And?”

He considers.

Then:

“I don’t think I started late,” he says. “I think I started… correctly.”

Something in my chest stills.

Good.

He understands.

I reach up, nudging his mask just slightly.

He freezes—then relaxes as I press a soft kiss through the fabric.

“You did,” I say.

He exhales, quiet.

Later, as the house settles into night, I reflect—not on Elodie, not on the staff room, not on the tedious predictability of it all.

But on this:

They measure life in milestones.

We measure it in alignment.

They wander, hoping to arrive.

We arrive—and remain.

And somehow, they still believe we are the ones who missed something.

How curious.

How inevitable.

How very, very incorrect.