When she opened her eyes, her face was wet with unexpected tears. Dr. Finch was handing her a glass of water, his expression clinical but kind. "That," he said, "was a 9.4 on the Richter scale of relief. The sub-sonic registered a harmonic overtone I've only seen twice before."
For ten minutes, he walked her through her own body. Clench your fists. Hold. And release. The sound of her own expelled breath surprised her—a soft, ragged thing. Pull your shoulders up to your ears. Hold the tension of every unfinished paragraph, every doubting committee member. Now let it fall. A deep, resonant groan escaped her throat, a sound she had never made in yoga class or in private. It was a seismic sigh, the sound of a tectonic plate of stress shifting.
Every rational alarm in Myra’s head went off. Professor. Student. Power dynamics. Title IX. And yet, her shoulders ached from hunching over a keyboard. Her jaw was sore from grinding. The promise of a single, un-policed release was intoxicating.
New Sensations: The Professor's Office Hours
Myra felt a flush creep up her neck. This was wildly inappropriate. It was also the most fascinating thing she'd heard in years. "You record people… relaxing?"