The Office Hours

Somewhere on campus a door is propped open between two and four, and a professor is sitting there, actually hoping someone shows up, and today it might be you. Office hours hold more than most students believe: a clearer explanation than the lecture gave, an honest read on which of your ideas has real legs, sometimes a letter of recommendation three years before you knew you'd need one.

The High Priestess keeps her wisdom behind a veil not to hide it, but because so few people bother to lift it. Walking through this particular door earns you more than the class notes ever will — it earns you being known by someone whose opinion will matter later, in rooms you can't picture yet.

All semester that door sat open and empty, and you told yourself you'd go next week, and now it's the week before finals and there's a line of twelve people snaking into the hallway, all of you arriving at the same quiet wisdom at once, far too late to get more than ninety rushed seconds of it. The professor's patience is a finite resource today, and you're the eleventh person asking the same question.

This is the veil dropping at the worst possible moment — the knowledge was always there, but everyone waited for the same week to go looking for it, and now the wisdom has to be shared instead of savored.