It always hits at about 120 seconds before class is destined to end. You can almost feel it with every agonizingly slow tick of the second hand on the clock.
Like a runner panting in the last few yards of the New York Marathon ... almost. there. The feeling of anticipated freedom is nearly palpable. Then finally the moment arrives. It’s 10:25, or 12:15, or 2:25, or whatever time it is that your class is meant to end. You slam your notebook closed, zip your briefcase. But wait. What’s that you hear? Your jaw drops in disbelief.
It is your professor’s voice droning on.
