Maria Conroy

The Last Lesson

I saw the shaking peripherally. My pen hung suspended over my notebook as my head followed the motion, and there was Arthur, his hands and wrists contorted and pressed into his chest, his whole body trembling. We were sitting in session at a conference in Philadelphia, and just a moment ago, he’d whispered a question to me as he reviewed our presentation, a moderated discussion between the two keynote speakers, which was up next, and I answered him. He nodded, jotted something down, and now—quivering? I didn’t understand. My brain froze as I watched him tilt over the empty chair next to him, and as he slowly, awkwardly, rolled off the chairs to the floor, convulsing.