Disappearing Pens

So I’m sitting in the arm-chair with the computer in my lap, grading students’ homeworks, and writing down the grades in the grade book. I’m old-fashioned, so my grade book is made of paper, and I enter the grades with a pen. This is a lot more convenient than any automated grade-entering system because even after moving from one university to another, then to another, then to one more, etc., I still have all the grades from all the courses I ever taught. When, for instance, a student from back at Cornell asked me for a recommendation letter to Law School, I looked at the grade book and immediately remembered who he was.

Besides, pen and paper feel more sturdy and comforting. I know, I’m so last century, but it is how it is.

So as I’m writing down the grades, my pens keep disappearing. I have to put a pen down to tap on the keys, but when I try to pick it up, it is not there. I get another pen, but it also disappears. And I’m too lost in work to investigate what happened to the pens.

Then, the doorbell rings. I open the door and discover the postman with a package. He brings me packages every two or three days, so I know him well. Usually, he is a very normal person but today he is staring at my chest in a very obvious way.

“What’s wrong with him?” I wonder. “Why this sudden interest in my chest?”

Then I look down and realize that there is at least a dozen pens of different colors sticking from my cleavage. This is where I was placing the pens as I was working. The look on my face when I see the pens is probably very startled because the postman looks uncomfortable and tries to get away faster than usual.