Chapter 16
16
There is only one-third of the semester left. He’s on sabbatical next semester, and even if he weren’t, there’s no promise of anything. You have this nagging out-of-sight, out-of-mind feeling that sometimes makes you want to take the whole thing back. You’re still unsure of the circumstance-to-coercion ratio. You can’t force him to do anything, but sometimes you wonder if he would have sought you out. If he’d make any effort to find you if you disappeared. The thought makes you equal parts embarrassed and sad. Longing starts in your belly, ends up in your face.
So you plan it. The scenario that seems most probable, or convenient, or maybe inevitable. You’ve been imagining it for weeks. There is no other way for this to go.
Invite him to your apartment. Your roommate’s working an extra shift. Tell him that you want to thank him properly for the class. It’s not a lie. You do. Your characters have gotten so much stronger. Your sense of arc more deliberate. You understand momentum differently. Like, come on. You have no idea if he’ll say yes. There have been moments, and yet. You have no idea what’s going to happen.
If there’s anything worse than waiting in your apartment, alone, the place clean, a candle lit, greens on the table, good underwear, you haven’t felt it yet.
Twenty minutes late, he knocks three times. Open the door. For a moment, he seems smaller than usual. Maybe it’s your fault. This place, or something about the cheapness of these walls. Either way, it’s like he’s taken off his sunglasses, and without them, he’s lost something. The word that comes to mind is clout . You’re just nervous. Move back.
He comes inside, stops at the table, looks around, gathers details like scattered coins. He goes to your books, bends down, pulls out dog-eared copies, nods or laughs. It is his pacing, too, you realize, that is attractive. Your mother is always in a rush. It makes her seem mundane. You are endeared to him, but it is more than that. His confidence. You wonder about it. Is it the writing? Or age? Being married?
He goes into the kitchen. He asks you about your coffee maker, your roommate’s Georgia O’Keeffe poster, the empty wooden bowl on the table that you got at a flea market and felt added some drama. He is a good person, you think. Engaged, concerned.
After a while—maybe you should have planned something—you sit next to each other on the couch. You think about offering him some wine, but you aren’t great at opening bottles. And you’re sure what he drinks at home is better. But there is something you can offer him. There is a reason he’s here.
Face him. Start as you planned it. Start by telling him how much writing has always meant to you but how now it’s different. There is a framework now. Tools. Use intentional words when you speak: consideration, amplitude, approbative. Tell him again about what his work has meant to you. How it is in you. Like stars. Go more slowly for this part. Drag it out. Be specific. This is when things shift. You watch him soften and lift, in a way. He looks at you. Turns his body toward yours. His eyes are like stones in a glass. He reaches for your face, puts his whole palm against your cheek, and you lean your body’s weight. That is when you realize that you cannot feel your feet. There is eye contact. Then there is this.
Scoot closer then. His face flicks with expectation; it feels like he has been on the brink of kissing you for so long. Count backward from ten. Your heads are angled slightly back. Bows. Arrows. Drawn. For a moment, he wraps his hands around your ribs. You want to tell him that he can crack you open, if he wants. Do anything, if he wants. You trust him that much. Or maybe it would be worth it that much.
He holds your chin as if to prevent it from sinking. There is something sharpened here. A knife inserted and turned up. You have no idea if you have pinkies or pinky toes. This is the face you tell no one else. There is protection from speed, from sound. Everything feels sudden and finite. Like jumping into water. Or like straight hair, just combed.
Soon, he puts his face into your neck. Soon, you cannot catch your breath or do you even have it? Is this the thing of getting older? you wonder. Or being a father? The lovingness of it. The care. When he kisses you, there is kindness and adeptness. And rhythm. His hands are everywhere; his arms are walls behind you. He is more capable than you imagined. Stronger. You imagine yourself falling. It won’t hurt. Or maybe it will. You don’t care.
You have no idea how long this goes on for. It has never felt like this. He kisses you harder, then more softly. He moves you to where he wants you. On your back. Neck flat. You are a doll with heart. You are his. And sometimes, it is as if he is boring through a casing, a wooden hull. There is something inside you he wants. Something that he knows is there. No one knew. Until now.
And you wonder then: What is the difference between a snapshot and a memory? A thing that happened and a scene? Maybe something about arrangement? Something about breath? Because it’s perfect, this moment. You want it to stop but also no. Whisper, Yes. Hear yourself feel. Make cups with your palms to feel it. What? There is a word.
For a moment, you almost laugh. You almost cry. Here: the words, even the words, cannot keep up. You hear yourself say, Please. The things you don’t know how to ask for. His hands are warm. You are a door that stops swinging between them. Also: you are a spark.
And though shit will hit the fan eventually, has to, first: there is this. Whatever the word is for that. The not-words. And the world slips down or it feels like that. It cleaves into before and after this.
Wait, he says. Wait. One word, twice.
Just like that, everything drops. The trajectory scatters out from the top like dimes. He moves away, eyes closed. He stands up. He shakes out his face as though clearing it of something awful. His hands are in fists. You shudder.
I can’t, he says. Or something like that. And you think—this is what you actually think: You can do better than that. Do better. You are thinking about the words.
You hold your actual heart then. He puts his face in his hands. Life bobs. Maybe you were just floating on rhythm all along. Or tides. He never even took off his clothes.
I’m so sorry, he whispers. I let myself get carried away.
He puts his hand on top of your head. You are a small dog. Woof. Look up at him. Your urge is to beg. Don’t. His face has shut like a book. He puts on his scarf, hat, everything. You don’t dare move.
Inevitability isn’t the same as predictability. You didn’t imagine this particular thing. Watch him leave. Cover your body with your arms. Still, you can’t get up. You’re not sure if your legs will even work. Is this even your skin?
Watch him close the door gently. Is he afraid of breaking it or you again? You have no idea.