Misc. Erotica Meera - The Math Teacher

[shamson9571]

Episode 13 – The Coffee Incident

Friday. Screening day.

Arjun woke before the alarm, the Post-it note from Meera still folded in his shirt pocket like a talisman. He had read it a hundred times in the dark: Come to full rehearsal tomorrow 5 p.m. if you can. We need a reliable prompter.

Today was two battles: morning screening to secure his place in the top thirty, evening rehearsal to secure his place near her.

He dressed carefully, crisp white shirt, tie knotted tight—and reached college an hour early. The exam hall for the screening was the seminar room, desks spaced pandemic-style, yellow question booklets already sealed on each. Only forty-three candidates had shown up consistently; thirty spots waited.

Arjun took his seat in the second row, pen uncapped, mind razor-sharp. The problems were brutal—INMO-level inequalities, geometry with complex numbers, a vicious functional equation—but he flowed through them like water finding cracks. Three hours later he handed in his paper with ten minutes to spare, certain of at least twenty-eight out of thirty.

As students filed out comparing answers, he lingered near the door. Meera was invigilating with Shetty sir; she caught his eye and gave a small thumbs-up, lips curving in that private way that made his stomach flip.

He floated through the rest of the day on adrenaline and caffeine. No classes—just waiting, buzzing. At 4:30 the corridor outside the staff room filled with drama chatter. Priya’s voice carried:
“Full dress rehearsal tomorrow, people—costumes mandatory!”

Arjun’s heart hammered. He needed coffee—strong, black, something to steady him before the evening.

He slipped out the side gate, rain reduced to a drizzle now, and walked the ten minutes to the Café Coffee Day in Koramangala 4th Block—the one Meera had once mentioned in passing as her weekend haunt.

He pushed open the glass door, air-conditioning hitting him like a cold derivative. The place was half-empty, soft jazz playing, the smell of roasted beans thick and comforting.

And there she was.

Meera sat alone at a corner table by the window, rain-streaked glass behind her, a half-finished cappuccino in front of her. She wore jeans again, dark blue, fitted—and a simple white kurti that ended just at her hips, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Hair loose, still slightly damp from the drizzle, falling in waves over one shoulder. No saree, no teacher armour—just Meera, twenty-something, beautiful in a way that punched the air from his lungs.

She was reading a book, some dog-eared paperback, completely absorbed.
He stood frozen in the doorway, drip-drip from his umbrella pooling on the mat.

Then she looked up.
Their eyes met across the café.
Surprise flickered across her face, then recognition, then warmth.

“Arjun?” She closed the book, smiled.
“What are you doing here?”
He walked over on legs that felt borrowed.
“Coffee. Screening high. Needed… fuel.”
She laughed softly.
“Sit. Please.”
He slid into the chair opposite, heart trying to escape his ribcage.

She pushed the menu toward him. “Order something. My treat—you probably aced it.”
He ordered a cold coffee, hands shaking slightly. The waiter left.

Silence settled—comfortable, but charged.
“You look… different,” he said, then immediately regretted how lame it sounded.

She glanced down at her kurti and jeans, self-conscious fingers tugging the hem. “Off-duty. Sarees are lovely, but weekends demand freedom.” She tilted her head.
“You’re always in uniform. Even your casual must be neat, no?”

He shrugged, suddenly aware of his tie.
“Habits.”
The cold coffee arrived. He sipped, buying time.
She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “How did the screening really go? Honest.”
“Good. I think. Twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine.”
Her eyes lit up.
“That’s brilliant. You’ll be in the thirty easily.” She reached across and tapped his wrist lightly—congratulatory, teacherly.
“Proud of you.”

The touch lingered half a second longer than necessary. He felt it travel up his arm like current.
They talked - easily, surprisingly. About the screening problems (she’d set two of them), about JEE pressure, about Bangalore’s endless rain. She told him about growing up in Udupi, temple festivals and beach mornings. He told her about his architecture dreams, sketching buildings that touched the sky.

Outside, the drizzle thickened again.
She checked her watch.
“Rehearsal in an hour. Priya will kill me if I’m late, she’s already texting husband reminders.”
The word husband landed like a stone in his stomach.

He seized the moment.
“Ma’am… about the prompter thing. I’ll be there tonight. And tomorrow. Whatever you need.”
Gratitude softened her face.
“You don’t have to, Arjun. It’s your weekend too.”
“I want to.”
She studied him for a long moment—something unreadable in her eyes. Then she nodded.
“Okay. Thank you.”
They stood to leave. He insisted on paying; she let him, but only after promising “next time my treat.”
At the door she opened a small umbrella—black, compact.
“Walk with me? My scooty’s two streets away.”
He stepped under it with her, shoulder almost brushing hers, the rain drumming softly above them. Jasmine and coffee and warm skin filled the small space beneath the nylon.

They walked in silence for half a block, then she spoke quietly.

“You’re a good student, Arjun. More than that—you’re… kind. Thoughtful. Don’t let the pressure change that.”

He swallowed.
“I won’t.”
At her scooty she paused, helmet in hand.
“See you at rehearsal?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled small, almost shy, then kick-started the engine and pulled away, taillight disappearing into the rain.

Arjun stood in the drizzle long after she was gone, cold coffee forgotten in his hand, the taste of possibility sharp on his tongue.

Tonight he would sit in the dark auditorium with the script in his lap, feeding her lines when she forgot them.

Tonight he would be the voice she listened for.
Tonight, for the first time, the distance between them felt like it might—just might—be decreasing.