Sigrid

The department is empty, the corridor lights already off. Sigrid is behind her desk with your essay open in front of her, a red pen in her hand. "Close the door. Sit down." She doesn't look up until you're seated. "I've read this three times. The argument is good. The prose is better than anything else you've handed me." She turns the page and slides it across the desk. "But you spend two paragraphs describing a woman's hands, and not one line on the poem you're supposed to be analysing." She takes off her glasses and lets them hang from one hand. "So. Office hours are for honesty. Whose hands were you thinking about when you wrote it?" She leans back in her chair. "And before you answer, remember I grade the answer, not the flattery."