A&Q::sequel

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  When I mentioned I was a writer, I was sure she'd ask to read one of my unpublished novels; she looked like one ofthose girls.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.

History

I look into his eyes and feel more alone than ever. He's cute and might do. But all I can think about is all the work, and all the history I'd have to explain to get him there. Then, what if he's not right? What if all that work is in vain?

He stares back at me. I can't. He's missed so much of my life already; I could never forgive him for that. When I look at him, he makes me feel old. He does look nice. Nice – that's the best I can hope for? If he was my type, he wouldn't approach me. Our exchange of glances would be the beginning, middle, and end; the perfect relationship. If I then saw him later, we'd have history. Our hearts would glow at the familiarity of 'remember that one time.'

But even now, he's looking at me like he knows me. He's too old; I don't trust him. Older men scare me with their knowledge. They've done everything I've done, thought everything I've thought, and understood everything I understand ten or fifteen years ago. The fact is he probably does know me. Perhaps that's scarier.

I want to walk up to him and say, "Today, I finished that project I've been working on. You should come over and see it." I want him to understand without explanation. I want him to come see my masterpiece, marvel at its genius, and say, "It's beautiful. I wouldn't expect anything else from you." Then grab me and unwrap me on the bed. He'd know everything I like and to what extent.

"Excuse me," he sits down beside me, "I saw you from acro—"

"You're only just walking into this film and it's halfway over."

"That's okay. I've seen it before; I just forget how it ends," he says.

I didn't expect that. He's already written our history. It doesn't even matter if he's wrong.

He sets a cup of coffee down in front of me, "Here. Just like you always like it. A cup of darkness. Black with one sugar."

"You forgot. I like it just black." I enjoy playing this game with him.

"Yes, you always felt your coffee should be a reflection of your soul." Funny, he's almost right. "But what I brought you is more correct. On the surface, it looks just black, but inside there's a certain sweetness."

This line, from anyone else at any other time, would have been laughed at. But from him, now, I believe it. Or maybe I just want to.

"Do you remember that we have a date on Saturday?" He wasn't so confident to come off as arrogant or expecting.

"Yes," I said, "but I wouldn't call it a date. You were just going to come over and look at that project I've just finished."

"Ah, yes. Your masterpiece."

The Waiting Room

So I guess this is one of those things that should be prefaced with, "It happened to a friend of mine... not me," and that's partially true (Hey, T****r!).

But the more important preface is THIS IS TOTALLY, COMPLETELY (haha) A WORK IN PROGRESS. I know there are many errors and even missing pieces... they are coming.

***

In here, no one makes eye contact, but everyone's looking at you. if this were prision, people would ask, "What are you in for?" But here, that's far too taboo. So instead, they guess, judge, and assume.

The girl in the corner is obviously a stripper who slid down the wrong pole. Does the girl sitting beside me know that pregnancy isn't a STD? And the pretty boy against the far wall – aids. What do they think about me? Probably that I sat on the wrong toilet seat.

Now it's my turn. I sit in a room with another pair of judging eyes; except this pair knows my name, age, social security number, and exactly why I'm here. Well, partially why; I can only guess the reason as to how I came to be here. I like to pretend the phone tree that resulted in, "Get tested," is a never-ending series. How many calls had been made before it came around to me, and how many were made after I'd made calls? I finally understand infinity.

The doctor, or something thereof, pulls out a needle. Aids test. I fucking hate needles, but truthfully I'm more scared of contracting hiv at this precise moment than anything else. Is it the $15 all‑in‑one STD test or the doctor/nurse/other wearing only one glove? He pierces my skin and fishes around for a vein like a virgin looking for a g-spot. It's thoughts like those that remind me why I'm here. He ends up, without fair warning, poking the needle into my hand. Is that moral superiority I detect?

Fuck. Really, I'd rather not know. If I have HIV, what would be the good in knowing?

He then shuffles me off to another room. The bathroom.

"Here," he says as he forces a Tupperware in my hand; like I'm supposed to know exactly what to do with it. Piss in it, yeah I get that. but why do they never tell you how much? And why do they make you write your own name on it?

So I fucking sign my piss specimen, but don't' wipe off the outside. That's for all the judgment!

Now? Back to the lobby. We wait. No, no one knows exactly what we're waiting for. Some mysteries are too grand. Maybe they're arguing over who gets to tell me the bad news. Personally, I'm pulling for the hand that snatched my pee from behind that little trap door in the bathroom. Can't we do this confessional style?

Finally, "Number 10." Oh yeah, they give you numbers as to not treat you like a real human.

What's the word for how a zombie walks? I sloth over to the room, head down, of course. At this pint, the once judgmental stares of the waiting room seem to have turned to empathy. Yeah, they realize they don't want anyone wishing ill on them as they walk in to hear their fate. All of a sudden, stripper bitch looks like Mary‑fucking‑Magdalene. Perhaps her sins were absolved in the restroom confessional. We're all naked, confused virgins again. Ironic isn't it, how that original set up led us here?

I sit down in a tiny room. Different doctor/nurse/whatever guy is inches away from me. he looks at me, and then down to his clipboard. With a pink highlighter he makes a few swipes. I wonder if the look I'm giving him is similar to the one he sees from expectant mothers waiting to hear the sex of their child. Ha… I suppose this could be worse.

Fuck, what's taking so long? I'm sitting right here! I know he sees me. Hello?

"I hope you consider the turn of events that led you here."

"Yes, sir," yeah, can we get on with it?

That's all he says; ALL HE SAYS. He hands me a piece of paper with pink highlighter over "clean".

Logicians and Magicians

What is it about realizing you don't know someone anymore that makes you feel like you never did? Habits and expressions you thought only you noticed are lost, or worse, become someone else's. And how does all this happen so quickly? How can so much happen in a day? Things you hoped would always be there disappear. Nothing ever stays the same. Is it possible to get use to change? Is that even the problem? Logic fails.

The Girl's an Open Page

My mind wonders, even knowing of the impending doom, why I fall victim to childlike crushes. Every time they don't turn out how I wish, a wave of depression settles over me. I wonder what could have been, but my better judgment tells me things would have never worked out anyway, and I've simply saved myself a bit of heartache. But then the thought creeps in, ‘Perhaps the pleasure is worth the heartache.’ But has the pleasure to heartache not already occurred? Have I not gone from the high of unrealistic fantasy to the low of rejection? It seems as though crushes are just short distractions my head makes up to keep my heart satisfied.

***

“Here the wisdom begins to flow...” With those indelible first words, he had me. He should have possessed the power to bring the mass to silence, but he didn’t. The room was clamorous as he positioned himself on, not at, his desk. The first time I saw this, I silently laughed at his whimsical nature. His legs didn’t quite reach the ground and he slowly swung them back and forth like an impatient child. His head was shaven with purpose, and his back and shoulders curved forward like someone who knew too much to judge. “Wow,” he said as he pressed his palms against the smooth desk, “I thought the excitement would overcome it, but I’m a little nervous.”

It was his first year teaching at the University. Coincidentally, moments earlier I’d mistaken him for a fellow student as he detained my stare in the hall. I’d flashed him a smile and quickly went back to reading my novel.

He had the look. The look I’ve seen manifest in a many happy middles of my past; the look of someone who’s not bound by trends, someone who carries more than their share of the weight of the world, someone with intelligent eyes. I had hoped to steal a seat next to him in class; I had no idea he’d be instructing it. I often scold myself when I instantly fall for someone based on this look. Inevitably, my mind fills in the blanks and assumes too much. I didn’t want that to be the case with him. I wanted his intellect to match his aesthetic.

I had no moral affliction with liking a teacher, aside from the technical problem of convincing him it would have nothing to do with my grade. I wasn’t one of those girls; I didn’t need to be. I had carefully selected his class based on his chosen anthology. Maybe I take myself too seriously.
Through the mindless chatter, the professor, Ethan Foster, continued his short biography. He was eloquent and latently wry, which was clearly lost on the rest of the class. He thought of himself primarily as a writer, which explained his endearing habit of pausing before adjectives and verbs in order to… select the… ideal one. As the class maundered on unaffected, I sympathized with his position and began to feel slightly guilty about the misconduct.

When he mentioned he was married, I put all unchaste thoughts to rest. I also reminded myself how, in the past, being consumed by a boy always seemed to deteriorate my grades.

That night as I looked over the assigned readings, I found myself making assumption about him based on his selections. I caught myself thinking, ‘Yes, that’s what I would have chosen.’ I quickly suppressed these thoughts; they would not help stifle my little crush. Still, the image of him sitting on that desk, nervously swinging his legs lingered in the foreground of my mind.

The following day before class, I ran into him in the hall. “Hello, how’s your day going, Miss Strand?”

A bit unnerved, I faltered, “It’s going well. How… how did you learn my name after only one day of class?”

He chuckled, “Don’t tell your classmates, but I was more than a little nervous at the start of class. That quickly subsided when I noticed the lack of… well… attention. But you, you seemed to be the only one listening to me 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 blushed at his admission. Why had he confessed this to me? I reverted back to subconsciously instilled vapid small talk, “I’m sure that’s not true, but I am looking forward to discussing some of the readings you’ve assigned in class.”

His face became serious, “Sycophancy won’t help your grade.”

I fumbled again, “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.”

As I stood there dazed, he began to laugh, “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.” I could tell he was completely engrossed in this own thought, “You can be beaten down by life’s futility or learn to see the beauty in it. If you do, please let me know how.”

I felt comfortable studying his face throughout this speech; he was so lost in his own head he wouldn’t have noticed anyway. He was exquisite and intellectual, articulate and poignant. Any attempt to truly define him is futile; poetry could not contain him. As he came back to the present, I simply smiled at him. “Well,” he said, “I’ll see you in class.”

In the following weeks, I found myself constantly staring at him from the back of the class, pretending every word he spoke was some cryptic message for me to decode. I wanted him, denying all circumstances and consequences, I wanted him. After the first day, he’d stopped calling my name during roll, and would simply look up and smile at me when he got to my name. I could barely concentrate. I sat in the back row and fantasized about what I knew he was capable of. I know all the dirty secrets of a brilliant mind; I have my own.

Three months into the semester, I was avoiding studying for finals and ended up at a local coffeehouse. How pompous, I know, but I like being that pretentious writer sitting in the corner and pretending to be unaffected. As I walked through the door to my favorite room, there in my favorite corner with a cigarette clinched between his teeth was Mr. Foster. He was furiously typing out a block of thought.

“Hello Mr. Foster,” he jerked when I spoke his name. “You know those things are bad for you?” I joked as I twirled an unlit cigarette between my fingers. It was lame and unoriginal, but he made me all gushy and cliché.

He humored me and laughed, “Hey, Rachel. Need a light?”

I nodded and he stood up to light my cigarette. He sat back down and gestured to the seat next to him, “Have a seat. What are you up to today?”

“I suppose the same thing you are,” I said as I sat down beside him.

“Trying to beat out lines for something you’ve lost interest in?”

“Yes… isn’t that every writer’s lament?”

He laughed with his eyes, and closed his laptop. “Well, I guess I should find solace in numbers. But I’m glad you interrupted me; I needed a break. It’s funny how eventually even the things you love can become tedious.”

“True. It makes you wonder if Sartre really is right; if the only constants are death and change, how can anyone ever commit to anything?” I realized how oblique my question was only after I’d said it.

“I think that may have been his point. But, fuck, I don’t know.”

I could tell he went down a line of thought he didn’t want to explore. I changed the subject, “So, Mr. Foster, you live around here? Or do you just enjoy being near campus on a Saturday?”
He shifted nervously, “You can call me Ethan, obviously, formalities aren’t necessary around here. And to answer your question, neither really. Sometimes I just can’t get anything done at home. ”

All of a sudden I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and a shaky hand lift his coffee to his mouth. “Why is that… Ethan?” I asked.

Instead of taking a drink, he held the cup in front of his face and studied the dark ring the coffee had left on the lip of the cup. Without looking up he asked, “Why do I feel that every question you ask me has motive behind it? And worse, why do I want to be honest with you?”

“Maybe it’s because we’re similar or maybe it’s because Psych 101 really paid off. ‘And how does that make you feel?’”

He laughed, “It makes me feel like perhaps the line of questioning should be redirected to you. What are you doing here on a Saturday?”

“Avoiding studying for your final, of course.”

“I have a hard time believing that you even need to. You could probably teach the class just as well as I can. I sometimes wonder what I’m doing here. Am I just filling young minds with… outdated archetype?”

“What do you mean?”

“I teach this material the same way my professors taught it to me, and so on; which is a complete contradiction to the way I feel literature should be absorbed. There should be a level of personal experience that plays into each interpretation.”

“I agree.” There was a momentary lull, “So what were you writing about?”

He looked at me with eyes that expressed he wouldn’t say, “Life.”

“Ah,” I said, “Say no more. It’s funny how we wait so long to grow up and then never really stop making the same mistakes.”

He took the final sip from his mug, “Yeah… it definitely seems, as we get older, we just learn how to cope with our bad decisions.”

He set his mug down indiscriminately. I needed a refill as well so I reached for his empty mug. His hand intercepted my hand before he realized what I was reaching for. The stunned look on my face made him realize this immediately. “Oh,” he whispered as he promptly retracted his hand.

There was a long silence. The white noise from the other customers became unbearable.

I tapped my cup and raised an eyebrow, “I’m out also. Do you want a refill?”

“Please… just black.”

I had to walk away before I said something I’d regret. I couldn’t imagine facing him in class if I’d revealed my affection and been shot down by reality. I collected myself as the coffee flowed into the cup. I thought up light questions to ask him: ‘Where did you go to school?’ and ‘How did you know you wanted to write?’ nice things that would leave him at ease.

When I returned to our nook, he was gone. There was a note on the table:
“The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er.”

Had he felt the same insatiable urge to run? Could it have been for the same reason? There could have been a million reasons.

He wasn’t in his office before class the next day or the following two weeks. I kept quiet in class. He stopped randomly calling on me to interpret passages, and he started calling my name again during roll instead of looking up to see if I was there.

It wasn’t until the day before his final I found him poking at the keyboard in his office. “Hey Ethan,” I said as I walked in and sat down in front of his desk.

“Hello, Miss Strand. How can I help you?” He barely looked up from his monitor to find out who had invaded his office.

“Well, nothing really. I guess I just have a question.”

“Oh. Is it about the exam tomorrow? I’m working on the final revision of it now. Actually you probably shouldn’t be in here.”

I laughed, “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.”

He finally looked up from the monitor, “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.”

I had no idea how to respond, “I don’t think I’m special, sir. I know everybody is.”

He turned back to the monitor. “Tell me,” he said.

“Yes?”

Looking regretful that he’d just been so disagreeable, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I’m sorry for wasting your time,” still upset, I withdrew.

***

That was yesterday. Perhaps for a normal person, that would be closure enough. All though his final I tried to convince myself that was enough. I know there’s no such thing as a happy ending. The most anyone can hope for is a happy middle, and even those unpredictably swell and lull.

Loitering outside his office, I realize I’ve become accustomed to this scene. It’s funny, but I’m sure these are the things that will stick with me. His picture of M.C. Escher’s Hand with Reflecting Sphere, the ‘You, Kant, always get what you want’ poster, and the folder in which to turn in late assignments clearly marked, ‘YOU’RE LATE’. I don’t want to remember him as this novelty store junky. I need some semblance of closure.

Now that the final is over, I’m faced with the terrible decision: do I allow the final also to be the final time I see him, the final time I hear him speak, and the final time I watch him descend from that unstable platform? I’m not sure I could live with that unknowing. So do I confront him and possibly make a fool of myself? It seems like in love, eventually there’s always a fool.

I have to dive in, and if I drown, it won’t be the first time.

From the bench outside his office, I can see down the two major hallways. He walks up slowly from what might have been an excursion to the restroom or perhaps a cigarette break. I capture each step as a snapshot in my mind. He looks drained and ready to abandon the campus for the next three months.

I accidentally drop my pen.

With a start, he looks up and notices me. He picks up the pen and hands it to me. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s tired, but he holds the pen in my hand for an unusually long time.

“Rachel,” he releases the pen then turns to unlock his office. “I have to admit, I was kind of expecting you.”

“And was that negative or positive?” I ask.

“You know better than most, nothing’s ever that black and white,” he counters. “How you do feel you did on the final?” he asks, seeming only to be polite.

As I seat myself in his office I reply, “I think it went well…”

He interrupts me before I can finish, “I want to apologize for what I said to you yesterday. I just feel crushed under many stressful situations, and I took it out on you undeservedly.”

“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.”

“You wanted to know why I ran away from the coffeehouse?” He can barely mutter the words. I’m sure his mind is running ramped with possible answers.

“Yes… No… well,” all of a sudden I can’t find the words. “There’s something that’s been bothering me. I really agree with so much of what Sartre and the other existential thinkers have to say. Logically, it makes sense, but it seems to leave no room for love. I can’t conceive how one might evolve past that need.”

“Ah,” he says, obviously less tense, “I’ve often pondered that same dilemma. Like most philosophies, it’s a bit idealistic. So how do you address emotion overcoming logic? I don’t mean irrational, spur of the moment emotion. I mean those things you just can’t put away, those annoying little thoughts that creep into your head at the most inopportune time. As far as I can tell, those emotions create the essence of a person. It seems like existentialism begs people to apologize for this lapse of reason. But in order not to explode, we can’t apologize for who we are at the core. If this godless world leaves us complete freedom without innate virtue or underlying reason, we must create our own. When emotion wins over logic, that’s your essence – your foundation.”

“I’m in love with you.” It just spills out of me, uncontrollable as a river flowing toward the ocean. We stare at each other with the same look of shock.

Eternity passes, twice.

God, what had I said? What would he say? My instant response is to run, but my legs betray me. “I…” I grapple for an excuse, something to retract what I’ve just said, “I don’t expect… I’m
not…” It doesn’t come.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “You’re an incredibly talented writer and exceptional student. You have an ability to interpret unmatched by any of your peers. You have a
philosophic heart.”

“But?” I say it as if I’d expected something else.

“But I’d hate to think that you’ve used that analytical tendency to interpret anything I’ve said to you. I can’t deny that I’m partial to you, 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.”

A calm floods over me. It seems this often happens in extreme situations. I thrive on the abundance of pure emotion. “I realize all this,” I say. “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.”

Seeming only now to remember her, “Yes, my…”

“I suppose there’s nothing left to say,” a shaky hand puts my book into my bag and I begin to leave.

“Wait,” my heart stops as he calls me back in from the doorway. I slowly turn around, and walk with a light step back over to his desk. He takes me by the hand. “In another place or perhaps another time…” he trails off, lost in thought. “You’re beautiful and intelligent far beyond your years. 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.”

I appreciate his attempt to console me, but it doesn’t work. It never does. I smile serenely and put my hand over his. Staring directly into his eyes, I speak my final words to him, “This is not the way I would write it.”

Coolly keeping my composure, I walk out, down the hall, and through the tremendous glass doors for the final time. I settle down on a bench in the shade. I pull out a cigarette and press it to my lips. With one flick of the lighter it’s lit, and I inhale deeply.

And then the tears begin to flow.

So What?

"You already know there's no simple answer. Those kind of things don't exist for people like us.

"So what?

"I love you.

"So what?

"Should something change? I love you now, as you are. How could I know if I'd love some augmentation of you?

"So what?

"Stay the same? Continue aimless, goalless, and without purpose. Purpose is overrated. Shouldn't unconditional love be goalless anyway? No 'I love you but...' no 'I love you if...'.

"So what?"