A young man remains in the room after I dismiss class.

I dread having to counsel him on homesickness or a girl who shot him down because he thinks I’m emotionally available because my eyes watered when I discussed Jocasta’s suicide. I pack my satchel hoping to give him time to collect himself and leave. 

As the students for the next class filter in, I open a folder in my satchel to retrieve the roster for this class. I glance at the list before calling his name. 

He does not respond. Clothes bunched around his shoulders make him seem unusually small.

I approach his table and tap the corner. 

He lifts his little head and looks at me with large, round eyes. His softly downed face seems out of focus. His thin lips spread, and his eye teeth seem large for his mouth. He leaps from the collar of his flannel shirt and lands on my shoulder. Naked except for a fluffy coat of white fur, his small simian body trembles.

Embarrassed to have stayed so late into the passing period, embarrassed to have a naked student on my shoulder, I scoop up his clothes and book bag and scuttle out of the room. I nod at the other instructor as I pass, hoping he won’t ask about my passenger. Little fingers puncture my jacket, shirt, and then skin. A long tail curls around my throat. 

Students late for their own classes pause and make cooing noises. 

I try to seem aloof but feel a blush on my cheeks. 

I rush up the stairs to the second-floor office I share with other adjuncts. I am grateful we have alternating schedules. I set down my satchel and his belongings. I attempt to take off my jacket, but his fingers claw so hard I cannot. 

He pants.

I might have a clearer head after I eat, so I take out my sandwich. He sees a yellowed orange in the satchel. His tiny hand stretches, but his arm is not long enough to reach it. He whimpers. 

I pass it to him. 

He bites into the rind. Juices leak through my jacket. The acid makes the puncture marks on my shoulders sing. 

I have another section of Intro to Lit after my break, so I can simply repeat myself. I walk to the bathroom and freshen up before I go to class. I wash my hands and look at my student in the mirror.

His eyes are open. His teeth are bared. His breathing is slow and even. He has calmed down. Although he still grips my shoulders, his fingers no longer draw blood.

The class is subdued when I walk into the room. They lift their heads when they notice my companion, but they do not say anything. As I talk about the structure of the amphitheater, I walk down the aisles, stepping over backpacks. When I discuss the narrative, I feel less passionate about Jocasta’s death. The student tightens his tail around my throat like a noose. 

One young lady in a white coat with a rabbit collar reaches up to touch him. He snaps at her fingers but doesn’t make contact. It is fifteen minutes before the end of the class, so I announce that we will leave early. I want to go home to think about how to best accommodate him. I pull on my overcoat and tuck my scarf around him to make sure he is at least partially protected from the environment.

By the time I get home, I am soaked in his piss. My shirt adheres to my shoulder. I try not gag as the viscous liquid trickles down my arm. I am self-conscious about stripping in front of a student, but it seems to be necessary. As I take off my shirt and unwrap the scarf, he gingerly sidesteps, while not moving from my shoulder. I leave a pile of dirty clothes at the doorway of my studio apartment and walk to the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror and feel the heat from his body. 

The shower blasts hot water, and I step inside. He positions himself in the stream and casts up his head in ecstasy making cooing sounds. I shampoo myself. He reaches out his hand, and I put a drop of green shampoo in his palm. He lathers and rubs it over his damp fur. He fills his hands with water and rinses his face. Once I am done with my ablutions, I shut the water off. He chitters with frustration. I give him a towel. He rubs it vigorously over my head and shoulders before pulling it around the rest of his body. I collapse on my futon. The radiator hisses. I feel no need to dress. For the first time today, he crawls off my shoulder and tucks himself into his towel. I plummet into sleep.

The next morning the alarm from my cell phone wakens me. I rush to my bathroom while the student keeps his eyes closed and lifts himself to a hunched position. I brush my teeth and set the brush back on the side of the sink. 

He gallops across the room on feet and knuckles and leaps up to the sink. He picks up my brush and clumsily moves it around his mouth. It erratically jabs at his teeth and tongue. At times, he bites it like corn on the cob. I leave him to his play. 

I dress before soaking yesterday’s clothes in the kitchen sink. Except for my coat. I have no replacement for it and will have to live with the gamey smell. I hope that I will be able to leave him in my apartment, but once he sees me put on my coat, he bounds across the apartment and leaps to my shoulder. I hand him a scarf a student left in my classroom last winter, and he wraps it around himself like a blanket. 

As we wait on the corner for the bus, I realize he shivers at twice the frequency I do. He curls tightly around my neck. His boney fingers fold around my throat. After ten minutes, I can barely feel my fingers. The bus arrives. 

Three quarters of an hour later, we walk into a boxy midcentury building. I flash my faculty ID to the security guard as I head to my classroom. A few students are in the room. Out of sheer impulse one of them reaches up and grabs the monkey’s foot, yanking him from my shoulders. He screams and starts racing around the room, pushing over empty chairs, jumping up and pulling ancient textbooks from the shelf he scales. 

Dust erupts into the air. 

A couple of students flee, and the security guard soon appears. He pants from his short jog.

The guard knocks a student to the ground as he races after the monkey. Eventually he grabs him by the neck and slams him against my desk. The small furry body doesn’t move. 

I scoop him in my arms. Not sure what to do, I rush out, flag a cab, and head back to my place. Once inside I can feel him breathe shallowly. I realize I will have to use this week’s grocery money for the cab ride. I can’t afford an ER or vet visit. For the rest of the day and through the night, he is a weight on my chest. 

In the morning, the student quivers awake. He piles my bedclothes around himself and chitters, looking at me with deep carnelian eyes.

I walk to my kitchenette and bring him some wrinkled but salvageable grapes from the counter. He pulls them off the cluster, and they seem massive in his tiny hands. He chomps them in half. He reaches out with his foot and grabs my index finger. Making unblinking eye contact, he continues to eat. 

Nicholas Alexander Hayes is the author of Bliss (Alien Buddha Press), Ante-Animots: Idioms and Tales (BlazeVOX) and Amorphous Organics (SurVision). His work has been featured in the anthologies Contemporary Surrealist and Magical Realist Poetry: An International Anthology and Madder Love: Queer Men and the Precincts of Surrealism.