As If

Psychology class, at the Saint Paul campus, ended its session. Two students remained. He opened the door for her. She wore a baggy, off-white dress shirt with a narrow, new-wave neck tie. She approached. As if gentlemen’s rules, he opened the door wider. She stopped a few paces from the door.

He extended his arm, as if displaying to her, go first. She tapped her foot, showing as if the nerve. He raised his brow as if he had all day. She folded her arms as if she couldn’t take this bull anymore about men thinking women are weak. Ha! He shrugged as if, C’mon, just walk through the damn door. She placed her hand on her chest as if scumbags like you make this world what it is.

He brushed his sleeve, rubbing his eyes as if, Boo-hoo, you poor helpless feminist. Making a hacking sound, she stuck her tongue out as if barfing from chauvinism. He slammed the door as if declaring war. She scowled, shaking her finger as if there are other exits in this room, like windows, so would he hold one open for her, too? He pointed to the window as if to dare her. She made an oinker sound.

He clucked like a chicken. She threw her book bag at him. He mooed like a cow. She gnashed her teeth to a grind. He slapped his own face. She grunted like a Neanderthal. He screamed, "Oh, as if!"

She spun around three times and charged toward the window, while flailing her arms. He said, "Whatever."

She crashed through the top story window, smashing atop the sidewalk. He rushed to the window and said, "Oh, my Lord."

She rolled over and looked directly at him before dying in a dramatic pose as if Christianity is the only Afterlife. He exhaled as if in her Afterlife gateways open automatically, without anyone else there to hold them, at least he hoped.