Wondrous questions, people.
Three rows back, John fired a spittoon made of the toilet paper that was stuck on his thumb.
It hit Sarah, and she balked. As Sarah does at everything, including the Treaty of Versailles.
Ruffled-haired Johnson, professor of nothing but drivel and hollow-point preaching, scraped down the board with his fingers and the back of his sports jacket.
But some were asleep, or at least married to desks, copious droplets of drool glazing the wood.
Others look out of nonce windows, pigeonholes in the wall, slats for the firing of arrows and other such Medieval nonsense.
Thomas was curious, thought on the business of building a slat of that size. Better for paper drops, he thought.
Marian, meanwhile, curled her q’s and dotted her i’s with florid embellishments; they were satin adornments on notes of meaninglessness. I love you, I think the one said. And then lunch.
But Simon, convinced that the Hundred Years War was two or three shy, raised his hand for a question.
Johnson continued nibbling at oddities swelling the air, swirling his finger in circles and toying with glasses on the bridge of his nose.
Something rang. Someone sang. And the busy-ness of Thursdays in History ended with a horrible rustle and loudening burp.
Simon adjourned, tossing his hair for the wind and licking his lips in anticipation of lunch.
The rest muddled onward, to class or to home.
Well done, today, Johnson intoned with a badly-placed hiccup.
Still playing with air.
And Thomas with slats in the wall.