sequel to: :this girl's an open page
A&Q
I caught her staring at me before the first day of class. I didn't think much of it and smiled back. If I knew then what that smile meant, I would have approached her and said, "Little girl, you still appear to have an ember of hope in your eyes. Allow me to smother it before it becomes a wildfire."
She was in my first class. I don't remember anything I said; just that she, Rachel Strand, was sitting right in front of me, three rows back. While all my other students chatted through my introduction speech, her eyes burned holes in me. When I mentioned I was a writer, I was sure she'd ask to read one of my unpublished novels; she looked like one ofthose girls. I don't remember if I mentioned I was married.
Her black hair was pulled back, and thick rimmed glasses sat on her face. She was desperately confident, trying so hard to display how unaffected she was. When I called roll, instead of saying, "Here," she said, "Present."
This wouldn't end well.
She trapped me in the hall before class the following day. "Hello, how's your day going, Miss Strand?" Girls like that; they probably think it shows great respect.
She wanted to giggle, but wouldn't allow herself to; she wasn't that kind of girl. She looked down to avoid it, "It's going well, Mr. Foster. How… how did you learn my name after only one day of class?"
I laughed; it was the name of the lead singer in a short lived punk band back in the eighties. It wasn't worth explaining, "Don't tell your classmates, but I was more than a little nervous at the start of class," I lied. "That quickly subsided when I noticed the lack of… well… attention. But you, you seemed to be the only one listening to be blathering on, which I'm sure kept me going far longer than I intended. I figured I should know your name since you may be the only one participating in the discussion." I knew that would flatter her probably elevated sense of intelligence. I'm not sure why I wanted to tease her.
She blushed, "I'm sure that's not true, but I am looking forward to discussing some of the readings you've assigned in class." I was right.
I put on my best disciplinarian face, "Sycophancy won't help your grade."
She put on her best bad, porn actress voice, "Oh no, sir. That was not my intention at all. I'm an English major. I'm actually interested in this class. I can't wait until we get to Sartre." If the black hair, black glasses, and black wardrobe didn't confirm it, this did. She was obviously one of those girls; an apprentice Sartraen who probably still confused lust with love.
I read her like an elementary essay.
"That explains a great deal. I remember being you, taking the world and myself too seriously. Much of what we'll be reading this semester will affirm that feeling. If you can read and interpret, you can pass this class. What I can't teach you is that life offers you a lot of absurdities and you must either choose to laugh or cry. You can be beaten down by life's futility or learn to see the beauty in it." See: the last lines from my graduate admissions essay. But it felt too speechy. I needed to add a little self-deprecation to make it believable, "If you do, please let me know how."
She looked at me as if I was giving her the formula for life. I almost felt bad about using my own preprogrammed poetry, but it was so easy. "Well," I said, "I'll see you in class."
In the following weeks, I constantly caught her staring at me from three rows back. I can't deny that she was very intelligent; maybe that's why I enjoyed toying with her. A part of me thought she was smart enough to uncover my game.
I threw her passages to interpret that may have been construed as cryptic messages, "Miss Strand, what do you think the Duke of Ferrera means when he says 'She had A heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad/Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er/She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.'?"
She wasn't thrown. She looked at me as if I was the only person in the room, and pursed her lips as she said, "He's calling her a slut." The class laughed and looked to me for confirmation.
As I nodded, from my perch atop my desk, I saw her uncross her legs barely covered by a little, black skirt.
She was definitely onto me.
She unshut her legs to reveal a wet, little mess of a cunt. Her shaved, pink skin glistened. Fuck, had that little slut been playing with herself during class? I quickly stood up, walked behind the podium, and shot her a look of surrender. I turned off the lights and showed an unplanned documentary. Knowing I wouldn't be seen, I slowly rubbed my cock through my khakis.
***
My wife and I were two fights away from a divorce. She was depressed and thought the answer was to have children. I hate kids. I felt bad, as I waited for her to get home that night. She was going to get all this Rachel frustration taken out on her.
When she walked in at nine, I greeted her at the door. "How was your day, Cheryl?"
She flopped down on the couch, "Jackie's parents were late again. I didn't get out of there until eight, and traffic was terrible. I just want to go to bed." That was fine with me.
I waited for her in bed in the same boxers I'd worn during class. I watched her strip down in the bathroom, then stand in the doorway trying to remember where she'd set her glasses.
The lamp cast fault-finding shadows across her body. One breast, a peak with a dark crescent beneath it, the other covered any would-be shadow and was completely illuminated. One nipple pointed down and the other forward. Below were trickles of pink stretch marks. Then her navel, an eddy. Jutting out from either side, were two permanently dark crevices where her jeans usually sat. Past her navel, the stretch marks flowed again. They bottlenecked into a mass of pubic hair; once nicely manicured, now overgrown. Her frazzled hairs pointed in every direction. Inches below all this motion, this frazzled flow, were two static ridges.
Beyond that, a vacuous pit.
"They're right here, where they always are," I called from the bed. She pulled on an oversized shirt and crawled into bed.
Rachel's body was surely devoid of that topography. I was irritated Cheryl wasn't her. I fantasized about how Rachel would be in bed. Submissive, but not passive. Enthusiastic and wanting to please. She'd cum easily and frequently. If I was too gentle, she'd remind me, "I don't make love; I fuck." I imagined bending her over the arm of the couch, pussy dripping, in that little black skirt, and pulling her hair as I shove my cock inside her.
"Ow, Ethan, what are you doing?" Cheryl's cry pulled me back to reality, "Can't we just make love like normal."
I fucked her for about fifteen minutes, and was starting to go soft. Her pussy was barely moist, and pulled at my dick. Then, the image of Rachel's wet flesh flashed in my mind. I pulled out and came all over her stomach. She didn't like that.
One fight down.
The next fight came quickly, about a week later. I didn't really let her speak, "Look, I've already abandoned you in my mind." It had nothing to do with Rachel, "I can't give you what you need; our foundations are too different." If it did have to do with Rachel, it was just that she'd revealed expanded options to me, "It's just not right for me to stay with you."
Cheryl's depression kept her from calling me out on my thinly constructed argument. She left immediately to her mother's house.
It didn't take long before I became restless alone in that house. I should have been dissecting lectures or working on my novel, but my thoughts had been reduced to snapshots. I felt like I was burdened with freedom. I had to get out.
***
I'd be stupid to assume I wouldn't find a dark haired writer in a coffee shop. I just didn't expect to find Rachel. Or maybe I did. For the past month, my life had been on autopilot. In my funk, our game had been put on pause. I almost regretted toying with her the way I had at the beginning of the semester.
I sat in a corner of the dark coffee shop, sipping black coffee, and filling my lungs with smoke. I was trying to work out my bad decisions with words – writing about my impending divorce.
Rachel startled me with, "Hello, Mr. Foster." She held an unlit cigarette to her parted lips and said, "You know those things are bad for you?" God, she was the poster child for I put dirty things in my mouth and don't care about my body. I couldn't help but wonder if she was wearing panties.
My gloom quickly dissipated and floated away, "Hey, Rachel. Need a light?" I was envious of the cigarette pressed between her soft, pink lips as I lit it. Her cherry glowed red, and for a moment, she was gone. "Have a seat," I said, "What are you up to today?"
"I suppose the same thing you are," she said as she sat beside me.
"Trying to beat out lines for something you've lost interest in?"
"Yes, isn't that every writer's lament?"
Our conversation went down this overly cynical path for quite a while. Suddenly, I didn't mind toying with her again. I'd pause and stare into my cup pretending to be perplexed by some greater event. Or else I really was.
"So what were you writing about, Ethan?" she finally asked.
I decided against saying how the view of your little cunt ruined my failing marriage and instead said, "Life."
"Ah," she said, "Say no more. It's funny how we wait so long to grow up and then never really stop making the same mistakes."
She set me up perfectly for one of my serial responses, "Yeah, it definitely seems, as we get older, we just learn how to cope with our bad decisions." I paused to add the drama I knew she craved, "Sometimes life is just a worst case scenario." She should have then said that's a good line, you should write that down. And I would have respondedsometimes I feel like my whole life is just a one-liner. Sure it was the same formula as the first line, but she probably wouldn't notice. But that's not how she responded, "Doesn't it get tiring constantly pretending to be so unaffected?" It wasn't rude or aggressive, she said it innocently.
That completely altered my perception of her. I was surprised she'd called me out. I realized she wasn't the girl I thought she was, but that I'd become one of those guys. For the first time, I respected her. I no longer wanted to play this game; I wanted to protect her from guys like me.
Not knowing what to say, I took a long gulp of my coffee and set down an empty mug. She made me feel vulnerable; it was comforting. I thought she reached out to cup my hand, not grab my cup. When I realized her intention, I had already started to caress her hand. "Oh," was all I could muster, and I retracted my hand.
Eternity passed, twice.
She tapped her cup and spoke without insecurity, "I'm out also. Do you want a refill?"
"Please," my voice cracked, "just black."
As soon as she was out of sight, I scrambled to collect my things. Before I snuck out the backdoor, I scribbled on a torn off piece of cigarette box, "The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er."
She would know what that meant.
When I returned to my house that night, my soon to be ex-wife was standing in the doorway looking like she was back on her antidepressants. With tempered courage, she said, "I agree that we should get a divorce. You've turned me into this hideous mess I've become. And because of that, I'm taking the house." Obviously, she'd been living with her mother.
She was right though, and I had no will to argue. One of my college buddies had just moved in with his girlfriend, and needed to sublease his apartment. We just learn how to cope with our bad decisions ran through my head. "Take it," I said.
I spent the next two weeks slowly moving out of the house and into the shitty little apartment. I moved stuff out during the day, when I knew Cheryl would be at work. I cancelled my office hours, which the university wasn't happy about since finals were just two weeks away. During class, I was present, but my mind was checked out. My students didn't seem to notice.
The day before the final, I was flustered and trying to finish typing the exam. Someone walked in and sat down in front of my desk. I didn't have to look to know who it was.
"Hey, Ethan," Rachel said.
"Hello, Miss Strand. How can I help you?" My head was elsewhere, and I really didn't want to have to explain why I'd left the coffee shop now. The truth is I wasn't sure what I'd say. I couldn't speak to her like I knew everything anymore.
"Well, nothing really. I guess I just have a question."
I had to get her to leave. I had more questions than answers myself. "Oh. Is it about the exam tomorrow? I'm working on the final revision of it now," that wasn't quite enough. "Actually, you probably shouldn't be in here."
She laughed innocently, "Yeah, it's my intention to cheat. The only thing more unbelievable than that would be if I intended to help your class of philistines cheat."
She was right, they were completely ignorant, but I couldn't deal with her right now. Apprehensively, I hit her where I knew it would hurt, "You're not the first person to acutely understand Sartre or Camus or whoever. Don't think your first brush with existential literature distinguishes you in any way." As soon as I'd said it, I wanted to pick her up off the ground and wipe away her tears. I felt terrible.
But she held her head up and said, "I don't think I'm special, sir. I know everybody is." In her defense, it was a good line. Though, she probably thought I was too old to know who she was quoting.
"Tell me," I said, "Is there something I can help you with?"
"No," she said as she walked out, "Sorry for wasting your time."
I knew she'd take it personally. Fuck, I would have. Throughout the final, I hoped it wouldn't affect her performance.
Was it wrong of me to expect to see her again after the exam? Honestly, I didn't yet know how our story would end. I flirted with the idea of running away with her, or fucking her and disappearing. I couldn't do either.
I was the hideous mess.
I was walking back to my office after a cigarette break, when a dropped pen caught my attention. It was Rachel sitting on the bench outside my office. I was surprised at the calmness she brought me. I picked up her pen and handed it to her, "Rachel, I have to admit, I was kind of expecting you." I unlocked my office and motioned for her to have a seat, then closed the door behind us.
"And was that negative or positive," she quipped.
I could tell she hadn't fully decided her course of action, and was still a little defensive from our last encounter. I didn't want her to be. "You know better than most, nothing's ever that black and white." It came out sounding defeated. "How do you feel you did on the final?"
"I think it went well –"
"I want to apologize," I really did, "for what I said to you yesterday. I just feel crushed under many stressful situations, and I took it out on you undeservedly."
She was genuine and calm, "It's ok. I didn't even consider that you'd be just as frazzled as your students during this time of year. My purpose was self-serving, and it should have waited or just been omitted all together."
I assumed she wanted to know why I ran away from the coffee shop; I still didn't have a good answer. But to my surprise, she asked about some intricacy of existentialism. I led her in a direction that, if my mind had been lucid, I wouldn't have. Something about love versus logic. I never really understood it myself.
"I'm in love with you." We stared at each other with the same look of shock. Her regret was instant and obvious. She searched for a retraction, "I… I don't… I'm not…" It was paralyzing.
"You don't have to do that," I said. I had no preprogrammed response for this, and still hadn't decided on a conclusion. "You're an incredibly talented writer and exceptional student," which was true. "You have an ability to interpret unmatched by any of your peers. You have a philosophic heart," unfortunately that's what makes us cry ourselves to sleep at night.
"But?" She had every right to expect a better explanation.
"But I'd hate to think that you've used that analytical tendency to interpret anything I've said to you," even though I did set you up, quite a few times in class, to do just that. "I can't deny that I'm partial to you," Now or never, Rachel!
The next words scraped my throat as they escaped, "but it's purely academic or at best paternal. Your affection is incredibly flattering, but in my position, it's not something I can act on."
I'd learned not to be surprised by her reactions, and now was no exception. I expected the waterworks to start, but she seemed collected, "I realize all this. It's not something I realistically thought you'd act on. I suppose I just wanted you to know. I know you have moral responsibilities to the university and your wife."
She unknowingly reminded me that I'd already betrayed both. Maybe this story would have a twist ending, "Yes, my –"
"I suppose there's nothing left to say," she picked up her bag and started to walk out the door.
"Wait," my mouth didn't consult me before speaking. She crept back over to my desk and pressed her thighs against the edge. I took her hand, "In another place or perhaps another time…" She set her other hand on the desk, and slightly bent down to look me in the eyes. Her eyes had changed; there was no ember. They said I dare you. "You're beautiful and intelligent far beyond your years," I couldn't; I knew I'd just end up destroying her. "I'm not the last person you'll feel this way about, and one of them may actually be able to give you what you need." In my defense, that was a better let down than I gave my wife.
But she wouldn't be topped. She put her other hand on top of mine, "This is not the way I would write it."
I know it's not, I thought as I watched her walk away for the final time.
