“Don’t. Move,” he says, his voice like a crack of thunder. It stills me. It penetrates my soul. It sends a flutter of chills over my arms. Ooo, yes, say it again. “I’ve set a plate holding a cup of water on your head. Anytime you slouch, lean too far forward, rest your arms on the table, or have any sort of improper posture, you will get wet.” Little does he know, I’m already wet.
