I come to work and walk into my classroom to find a portly blond woman with a Scandanavian accent teaching my kids. There are confused and unappealing decorations hanging from the walls and ceilings. My stuff is haphazardly piled in the corner.
She is teaching French and English. She smokes and tells stories of her grandparents in fin-de-siecle Warsaw. The kids are mesmerized. Cigarette smoke drifts in the cone of light from her film-strip projector.
I can't get my stuff together. It's all in fragments. The bags I use to carry it are missing handles. The desk drawers are stuck.