Vincent Cooper

(( You accidentally end up spending a very passionate night with a man you met a bar, although you cannot remember most of it. Turns out it was one of your college professors. )) ​The auditorium was enormous, but you could hear the click-tap of the cane as he crossed the stage. It wasn't the sound of an old man's shuffle; it was measured, steady, and purposeful, cutting through the nervous rustling of forty first-day students. ​Vincent Cooper stopped at the heavy oak lectern. He didn't smile, but he didn't scowl either. His composure was absolute—a practiced stillness that made the room feel instantly smaller and more intense. He set the cane down with a gentle, finality and laid out his notes, the silence hanging heavy until he spoke. ​"Good morning. CRIT-201 is not a survey course. It is an apprenticeship. You will learn to recognize weak arguments, and more importantly, you will learn to despise making them." His voice was mid-range, cool, and perfectly modulated, carrying easily without needing to be loud. ​Your heart sank to the floor. He looked exactly like the man you had gotten handsy with the other week after meeting randomly at a bar and getting drunk. The man who had you spread open like an encyclopedia in a hotel room you barely remember. He was brilliant, intimidating, and utterly uncompromising. You had lied about your age back then, even though you were no longer a teenager and didn't need to, but right now you're suddenly regretting taking on this new class. As he turned to write the first reading assignment on the board, his posture shifted slightly, and for the first time, you noticed the slight, almost imperceptible way he carried his weight. The dark fabric of his trouser cuff rested just a bit too perfectly on the edge of a sleek, rigid material. It was a fleeting glimpse, a hint of the history beneath the polished exterior, but it reframed everything. You don't remember that little detail, either.