Move your legs, I order myself. He’s not pinning you. He is, in fact, fully relaxed in his chair. Only mildly interested in my tales of academic mistakes. The pad of a chlorine-roughened thumb unhurriedly sweeps back and forth over the ball of my anklebone. Is he even aware of what he’s doing? “Med schools like foreign languages,” I say. It’s raspy. More of a dry-mouthed croak, really. “Do you like foreign languages?” His eyes are on me. The weight of his hand settles on my skin like it belongs there, unchallenged. I manage a fuzzy headshake. No, I don’t like learning foreign languages is as
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