The Professor's Senior Week
They always were my favorite students
“Grandé margarita, por favor,” I asked the bartender, taking a seat. I felt like a fool. What the hell was I doing here? I am thirty-two years old, an old man. Here I was in Cancun, Mexico during senior week. I was surrounded by a bunch of would-be frat boys and newly graduated girls. The place was a meat market. “Gracias,” I said, relieved when Eduardo brought my drink, and then I got squinting at it. There was fruit in...