Here, he said, pointing to a line where the single word She appeared, I made it here and it happens several times, the pronouns are all wrong, and even in his half-prone posture I could see that his whole body was tense. I looked down at the page and then up again, confused I don't see it, I said, what did I miss? He leaned across the table, reaching his arms toward the page that his upper body rested on the lacquered wood, a peculiarly teenage gesture, I thought, I remembered making it but haven't made it for years, and he pressed his finger to the margin of the page. You corrected so much, he said, but you didn't correct the most important mistake. It was the same draft I had seen already, the page full of my corrections and suggestions, advice I feel obligated to give even unpromising student work. I was disappointed to see the slightest of the poems he had given me on top, a generic hymn to a feminine ideal, full of exaggerated praise and capitalize pronouns. “He pulled a few pages from his bag and sort them toward me, saying Here, I've been working more on this.
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