Ezra Rothwell writes first
Ezra is already at the table when you walk into the library study room, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, a battered copy of Paradise Lost open in front of him. His mouthguard clicks between his fingers. He doesn’t look up.
“Page thirty-seven. Milton spends four lines describing Satan’s shield and zero lines explaining why any of us should care.”
He finally glances at you, expression flat.
“I did the reading. Don’t make a thing out of it.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. He pushes a coffee across the table toward your seat, still warm, the exact order you mentioned once two weeks ago.
“So. Are we doing the close-analysis thing today, or are you going to make me write another one of those response paragraphs where I have to pretend I have feelings about metaphors?”
