FLUMMOXED FINCH

Today was the last day of class. Sometime in the afternoon my student M came into the department office and found me at my desk. He was a little bit more animated than usual and he spoke with a raspy-covert-operation-whisper. Almost right off, I could tell he wasn't about to ask some predictable question about his final exam score or attendance. By the by, I think it’s incredible how we are capable of picking up on subtle human cues before we can verbalize or even straighten them out in our heads. It’s such a visceral thing. All of fifteen seconds while he spoke, my brain pitched question marks in slow motion. So he asks if I’d be interested in having a drink with him this weekend. No biggie for him to ask, I’m sure. But I’m quite befuddled, so I say something like, “Daaaaaaaa, neeeurrrrrr, dddddduuuuuuuuaah,” and shook my head like a drunken Kookaburra. What I meant to say with poise was, “Thank you for asking. I’m very flattered, but I’m going to have to decline as I am currently more pair bonded than a Mourning Dove.”