Bubble Bath & Writing Report:

Happy to report that my homemade bubble bath actually makes a reasonable amount of bubbles. It definitely doesn’t foam up quite as much as store-bought, but sufficiently to my needs. It’s also more notably soap-y — I could taste soap on my skin afterwards, so I think a good rinse would be recommended. And the scent I mixed is quite strong — I’m going to add a note, “use sparingly,” so people aren’t overwhelmed by the sandalwood. Not everyone wants to go to bed smelling like incense. 🙂 A lighter touch with the essential oils if I do this again, I think.

It’s a Patreon day today; I’m going to get the Interstellar boxes in the mail, and I finally wrote the June story (and thanks again to patrons for their patience on this one; I expect to be back to first day of the month going forward).

It’s different in approach than the previous ones; I think this current set of stories will mostly be focused on the students at the university, but I thought it would be interesting to have interludes from the viewpoints of older folks as well, I think generally shorter than the student pieces. Well, we’ll see.

It’s interesting how when you’re a student, you’re mostly interacting with other students, not really thinking about your professors and their lives. But they do have lives. 🙂

Here, I’m going to just post the whole piece here, since it’s so short. To get more of these delivered to you, check out the link in comments.

*****

Lydia

she leaned into the cane, stubbornly standing despite the ache in her hip that told her she’d be paying for it tonight, tossing and turning in her bed. well, it wasn’t as if she slept much anyway, and it was important to come in strong with the new batch of students. there’d be time to be gentle later, to extend them grace when the demands of ambition met the failures of the body to perform. before that, she meant to get the best out of them she could, and these first days were so important.

she couldn’t demonstrate the moves properly, and had to rely on holos of past glory and her Tas. she couldn’t dazzle them with an impromptu fouetté, perfectly executed. all she had was her voice and the passion, and whatever strength and determination she could demonstrate for them. so she couldn’t sit down, and she watched them with eagle eyes, calling out corrections like a drill sergeant.

and what was it all for, anyway? most of them would never become professionals, and even the pros would likely dance back-up at best. their university might bill itself as the best in all the worlds, but there was centuries-old dance schools on Earth, on Solvida, on a hundred scattered planets across the Charted World. some of the aliens had traditions that went back thousands of years. what were the odds that any of her poor students would be able to compete with that?

she shifted restlessly, her hip grinding with the movement, her bad ankle suddenly shooting pain, threatening to go out from under her. she almost grabbed for her TAs arm; she knew Manju saw it, knew he’d leaned towards her, ready to catch, but oh, the indignity!

she’d danced solo for planetary rulers, had wrung herself dripping from the stage, three hours into a performance, and now, she couldn’t even stand through a single class? fury lent her strength, and she managed to catch herself, to straighten and balance on the point of the cane, probably digging it into the polished wood floor, and her department chair would scold her for that, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

the brief burst of fury ebbed, leaving her trembling, but steady enough. the first-years wouldn’t have noticed. they were so terrible. there was one girl, a spacer, who likely wouldn’t even make it through the semester – her limbs had never learned how to move effectively in planetary gravity, and it was probably too late to adapt. never mind, never mind, it didn’t matter – maybe she’d pass, maybe she wouldn’t. dance clearly wasn’t the reason she’d come here, so if she failed at it, no matter. hopefully, the girl had some other talent.

she leaned back on her good foot, taking weight off the cane. closed her eyes for just a moment, let the music thrum through her bones. a Marith chant, a hymn, and she could almost feel it, the flicker, the warmth of blood in her veins, rushing to pulsepoints. almost, almost, and then it was gone again, and she could weep for the loss. a tide receding, leaving her dry as dust, stranded on the shore.

Manju touched her arm, and she opened her eyes to find the first group filing off, a new batch taking the center of the room. they began running through the opening catanku, all moving smoothly enough not to grate. there was one boy, dark-haired and slender, almost gawky in his height, but something promising there. he caught her eye and held her gaze, unusually bold for a student. then he actually winked at her! Winked, and completely abandoned the catanku, improvising a swivel of hips, a drop and rise, one hand dragging its way up his body. wicked. her body thrummed in response, blood rushing, and he knew – oh, he clearly knew. she snapped, “No improvising, Ser…”

“Smith,” Manju offered quietly. “Jonathan Smith.”

“Ser Smith. Stick to the program.”

“Yes, teacher,” he said, placidly enough. his body obeyed, but his eyes stayed on hers, and they were laughing.

nothing could come of this, of course – he was a student, she was his teacher. but she was grateful, nonetheless; he’d woken her up, reminded her that there was a reason she was here, still teaching, a hundred years into her storied career. she was here for boys like this, for the blood rushing in her veins, for the music carrying them both away, just for a moment.

“Manju. Get me a chair.”

if she rested a little now, maybe later, she could dance.

*****

(for Debbie Allen, with thanks)

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