Chapter 14
When Mr. Korgy comes into Victoria’s Secret, it takes me a second to recognize him out of context.
He’s not wearing his usual teacherly clothes—lived-in and lumpy, the colors faded from one too many times in the wash.
And he’s not wearing his statement purple cardigan either.
Instead he’s in a black tracksuit with a crisp coat over top, and a gray baseball cap hoods most of his face.
But then he looks up and there they are. His eyes. His sad blue eyes.
“Hey Waldo, I spotted you through the window and figured I should come say hi.”
“Hi,” I say.
Hi. That’s it. Wow. What a word. What a choice. The brilliance is staggering. The genius, heartbreaking.
“I was trying to find a present for my kid’s birthday but didn’t realize the toy store had closed down,” he says.
“Oh yeah, a while ago,” I say, and then a feeling of not-enoughness swamps me and an urgent, desperate thing pushes its way up my throat, clawing for connection, forcing a joke. “Fuck kids, right?” I say. “Who needs an imagination?”
And now, the horror. The regret. The shame. At the put-on brazen attitude. The try-hard snark. The pick-me girl look-how-edgy-I-am cuz I can make low-hanging-fruit jokes. This isn’t me. This is pathetic.
Mr. Korgy narrows his eyes and lets out a faint Mm of acknowledgment.
But that’s it. A simple gesture of course correction.
I appreciate him for this. For not indulging my reach with an unwarranted laugh.
For not letting me get away with it unscathed.
He knows it’s beneath me, and he refuses to engage.
It’s an honor, being regarded highly enough to be disappointing.
“Well look, I’m glad I caught you,” he finally says. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something…”
A cool, wet spot grows in my underwear. I catch a hint of a sweat bead under the brim of his baseball hat. Is he nervous? Or just hot under the bright store lights?
“I told my wife about you,” he says. “About how I have a student this year who’s really good. Very promising. She said maybe we should have you over for dinner.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Not a pity dinner, of course,” he jokes. And beautifully so. Successfully accomplishing what I, only seconds before, failed at. This is how a joke is done. Well-timed. Well-placed. Something just between us. Making light of a thing that had once been heavy.
“A dinner out of respect,” he adds. And then, a wink. A wink that undoes me. A wink that completes me. A wink.