Fifteen
After seven months of haunting Esther, I thought I’d seen it all. But no. Today I learned something brand new and completely unexpected about Esther: she owns an all-pink three-piece tweed suit. With elbow patches in a darker pink, coordinating with her bow tie and pocket square.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Esther greets her morning class with a singsong smile.
Despite the fifty shades of pink, this is the most visibly masc I’ve seen her dress ever.
Between the suit, her brown leather chelsea boots, and her go-to topknot, she’s adorably dapper.
Even if pink is not my favorite color, it looks so good on her.
Especially from my seat behind her at the front desk—those are some well-tailored trousers.
The students stare at her skeptically, slouched in their chairs.
Her first class of the day is her mid-level course: History of Feminist Thought.
While most of the students who are registered are Gender Studies majors, discussing suffragist treatises at eight in the morning would make any sensible person grumpy.
Nothing could get most students enthusiastic this early in the morning, especially not an annoyingly chipper professor trying to make the history of philosophy interesting.
Esther seriously needs to kiss the registrar’s ass.
She keeps getting shafted with the worst classrooms and timetables.
The History of Feminist Thought is in the attic of the Castle.
It’s pretty—with stained glass windows and massive oak beams—but cold.
The rising sun is hidden behind clouds that threaten snow later, so even the classroom is dark and dreary.
There’s a fireplace that used to heat the classroom, but it hasn’t been lit in decades.
Instead, she’s instructed to turn on the fan in the door to pull in heat from the hallway.
Students keep their coats on. Some even bring blankets.
If I were Esther, I’d quit. She puts up with too much bullshit for an adjunct.
“How is everyone this morning?” Esther beams as she looks at the zombies staring back at her. “Would anyone want to share their fun V-day plans? Anyone send any Valentine’s?”
One student with an undercut and a septum piercing snorts. “Valentine’s Day is a fake holiday that reinforces a capitalist patriarchal power structure.”
“I bet you’re fun at parties,” I snort. “But I do agree.”
“Sure is!” Esther grins. “Doesn’t stop me from celebrating, though!”
“What’s to celebrate?” The jaded student levels a deadpan look at her. The way they jut their jaw forward reveals the faded, healed pink marks on their neck from the Pox, recent by the looks of it. My breath catches; the same spot as Cash had. They’re lucky to be alive.
As if they feel me looking, they pull their scarf higher up and lean back in their chair.
“Love, of course!” Esther beams. She’s getting on my nerves now, and I adore her.
I can’t imagine how annoying her perkiness is to the under-caffeinated skeptics, who probably regret taking out debt for this.
“Love itself isn’t inherently a byproduct of a capitalist patriarchal society, even if the deluge of chocolates and flowers are. ”
“Aren’t you single?” Another student asks skeptically, not even bothering to look up from their laptop.
Face falling, Esther stiffens. “Yeah, but how did you know that?”
The student shrugs. “Seems obvious.”
“Damn, that’s harsh.” I’m not laughing anymore. “Dr. Voigt is a fucking catch. Show some respect!”
Esther laughs it off with a shrug of her own, and turns to the whiteboard on the wall.
She uncaps a dry-erase marker. “Single or not, Valentine’s Day is still one of my favorite holidays.
Quick deviation from the syllabus—bear with me while I defend myself here.
Who could tell me the different types of love? ”
The students sit wordlessly, replying only with skeptical and bored expressions.
Esther starts writing on the board in her incomprehensible chicken scratch, as if the silence isn’t deafening.
“Eros is sexual, romantic passion, the kind of love typically celebrated on Valentine’s Day.
But it’s not the only kind of love!” She grins over her shoulder.
“We also have philia, or friendship; ludus, which is playful love; agape—love for everyone; pragma—everlasting love; philautia—self-love; storge—family love; and…” she trails off.
“There’s eight. What’s the eighth? Could anyone help me out? ”
I clear my throat. “Mania. Obsessive love.”
Neither Esther nor the students hear me. I don’t try to ground myself in the hopes that anyone might.
Mania is what comes to mind when I think of love.
That was how my mother loved. Deeply and possessively.
First for Dad—she always said I came between them and drove him away.
She couldn’t stand how much he cared for me.
As if an infant—her own child—was a threat to their marriage.
Later that manic love shifted from Dad to Angel, which apparently continues even in her death.
Part of me is grateful she never loved me.
“Ah, well, doesn’t matter.” Esther scribbles a question mark that looks more like the number three at the bottom of the list, and turns back to the class. “The love I like to celebrate on Valentine’s Day is philia and philautia.” She underlines them.
“Sounds more like fellatio,” someone mutters in the back, and the class collectively snickers.
Esther pretends not to hear. “While my friends live pretty far away, we all still texted this morning to wish each other a happy V-day!”
I frown skeptically. She technically did text a group chat this morning, but she’s slightly exaggerating.
There were no responses to her text. She needs better friends, because she also wished them a happy new year and Thanksgiving, with no response.
Granted, I never had friends other than Cash, so perhaps that’s just how long distance friendships are. How would I know?
“And even though I’m happily single, that doesn’t exclude me from celebrating self-love on Valentine’s Day. And I plan on treating myself tonight!”
The class is openly tittering now. “Get it!” someone teases.
Esther laughs and pretends to be embarrassed, but I can tell she’s pleased with how engaged the students are. “Get your heads out of the gutter! I didn’t mean it like that!”
I laugh with them. “Don’t lie! You made a point to charge your vibrator this morning!”
“Throughout history, how we conceptualize love shifts with our norms. And in modern times, we pedestalize eros and storge—romantic and familial love—but demonize philautia as narcissism, and ludus as meaningless flirting.” Esther points to the board as she talks, not that anyone but her can make out her handwriting.
“But there is meaning in all kinds of love. Especially loving ourselves and playful love. If we practice agape—love for the world—why would we exclude ourselves, or minimize the connection we had with the stranger we barely spoke to? That is love, too.” Esther tries to underline ludus, but misses, striking out storge instead; she doesn’t pause long enough to notice.
“Love is inherently human. We may be told that love should be celebrated in diamonds and expensive dinners, but people have loved each other and ourselves since we understood we were people, and that’s worth celebrating. ”
Esther smiles at the class, pleased at the slight nods of agreement she’s managed to squeeze out of them. Her students look significantly more awake than they did five minutes ago.
I shake my head, astounded and overwhelmed by her, yet again. “How do you do that, East? How do you love everyone so hard, when no one seems to love you back?”
I barely scratched the surface of love when I was alive.
Before I met Cash, I only knew Mom’s manic love.
Cash opened my heart to friendship and loving myself.
He showed me what romantic and familial love could be, through his adoration for his wife and kids.
He modeled agape by seeing the best in everyone, even frustrating people like Gilda and Allan.
In a way, I suppose Esther showed me ludus.
She’s the stranger I barely spoke to, but I felt that connection with her.
I wouldn’t have dreamt of her otherwise.
I wouldn’t have panicked and lost my confidence that first day, if I’d merely imagined that draw between us.
Dr. Monae’s rehearsed social niceties would have sufficed, but Esther had been excited to meet Lucy, not the academic mask.
I’ve never been good at being myself, but I felt compelled to try.
When I failed, I lied to myself it was all in my imagination.
Wishful thinking. A dream that would never become reality.
By now, I’ve seen enough evidence to trust that she felt that connection, too.
Sitting on the table, I curl around myself as Esther engages the class in small talk about their Valentine’s day plans.
What do we have now? Have I become my mother, obsessed with the object of my affection to the point of madness?
Or is this another, undiscovered kind of love, a force like eros or pragma or philia?
Can I even love as a ghost?
I laugh quietly to myself, “Of course, I can.” Of all of my ridiculous attempts over the past seven months to hypothesize my way out of grief, that is the easiest conclusion I’ve drawn.
That ludicrous connection we had when I was alive has transformed into something incomprehensible to my emotionally stunted heart.
I undeniably love her. “But what can I even do with that?”
“Okay, back to business!” Esther wipes down the board and turns back to the class with a grin, ignorant of my heartbreaking revelation.
“Should we talk about priming and anchoring bias? Who could define priming for the class? Could anyone summarize the articles we read for today? Would anyone like to share their thoughts about how these concepts might relate to white supremacy within the Suffrage movement?”