WAIT

a short story

For some, the moment is crystallized. Frozen in time. The instant when lovers lay eyes on each other. They say:
I knew instantly, he was the one… or
He was my soul mate…or
I remember the exact moment we laid eyes on each other... or
Isn’t it just romantic? We were in line at the coffee shop and I dropped my notebook…

With George, it was not so. I couldn’t tell you the story of how we met. My recollection of our first acquaintance could not be distilled into one precise exchange. I’ve tried to connect the dots, but with George and me, it was just the opposite. There had been many, many anonymous encounters. Ironically, our story was blurred and obscure until suddenly, it wasn’t. I’m certain we’d seen each other many times before the spring day when he sat in on my lecture. I was presenting my research at a small faculty conference. Not more than twenty attendees and still I was blind to George. It wasn’t him. I should have been captivated by his looks, his intellect, his manner. He told me later that he liked that he hadn’t stood out to me; even when he asked a question during the lecture. The question was related to a series of experiments I had conducted. My research sought to explain relationships: healthy and dysfunctional. I had developed a taxonomy of intimacy, the result of years of studying relationship patterns. A way of relating between parents and children; lovers; and friends. I found all relationships fit into one of five distinct categories: (1) safe, (2) satisfying, (3) passionate, (4) volatile and (5) dangerous. From what I observed, safe and dangerous were best avoided. A safe relationship was one in which a person was emotionally numb. A relationship in the dangerous category spoke for itself. I discussed the value in understanding these patterns before entering a relationship. All relationships go through different phases as they evolve. However, the dangerous relationship can take many forms: violent being the worst, and obsessive being the hardest to end. This, of course, was because the obsessive relationship can only happen when each individual’s unresolved past fits perfectly together. This electrical charge is the most powerful of the dangerous relationships.

I don’t remember but as George retold it, he posed his question during my lecture about avoiding what I called dangerous relationships. First, to give you an idea of the “me” before George, I can say honestly that I did not “see” him. Sitting in the audience, he was part of a blur that had become my interactions with others. I escaped, I supposed. Escaped so deeply in my work that there was little beyond that. In my absent-minded, perhaps overly focused manner, I answered his question with data, with conclusions from my research. After my abrupt response to George’s question, I simply carried on with my lecture. Showing film clips of couples and juxtaposing them with interview with parents. Tracing the patterns of intimacy. Defining what was normal and what was deviant.

After my lecture, a number of attendees approached me to ask a question, congratulate me on my research, or thank me for my presentation. Once the last person left the lecture, I noticed George. The room had cleared out, except for him. I was busy unplugging equipment, turning off the electronic system. He approached me and I turned and smiled.

“Professor Klein.”

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m George French,” I teach philosophy.

“Oh, Professor Fren — “

“George.”

“George. And, I’m Avery. I’ve heard so much about you — you have a number of books in the faculty library. Philosophy.”

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you? Did you have a question about the lecture? A comment?”

“I did, in fact — have a question.”

“I’d be happy to talk with you about it.”

“It’s late, are you sure you don’t need to leave?”

“I don’t suppose it will take all night, will it?” I joked. I don’t know where that came from. Ordinarily, I would have remained a little distant, professional.

“Well, I can’t say. It very well may go on until the early hours of the morning.” He smiled. That was when I noticed how handsome he was. How his presence, a vacuum, that would draw all of the attention from a room. He must be a good professor, I thought.

“Well, let’s get to it then. What did you think of my research?”

“I was just wondering about your theory. Your basic hypothesis about relationships. Intimacy. The relationships that fall into the category of dangerous. Not violent, but as you said, ‘obsessive.’ What if it’s not obsession at all. What if the only time two individuals are only satisfied is when they experience that level of intensity? What if the “perfect fit” you describe is merely a more intense — ” He cut himself off.

I remember asking him to elaborate. I was still in my academic researcher mode. It wasn’t the first time I had heard a question like this. I was already formulating my answer. I removed my reading glasses and looked at him intently. I stepped forward, asked my question then waited:

I pressed, “Merely a more intense? — A more intense what?”

He took his time. Starting into my eyes.

“I suppose what I’m saying, Professor, is: what if it is not pathological at all? What if it is an exciting game? Consensual?”

“That’s simply devil’s advocacy,” I chided. “There is no such thing as “normal” obsession. As soon as there’s consent then — ”

“You’re aware that in philosophy, there is no absolute truth.”

“Well, there isn’t in psychology either. But, there is empirical evidence,” I said.

“I suppose. I just wonder if the assumptions and theories are part of the myth that when people are attracted to each other, they fall into neat categories.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Something about our conversation was drawing me in. I suppose I knew we were circling an attraction, using our respective intellectual views to engage with one another. It was sudden, an unexpected repartee, but I was enjoying it. Wanted it to keep going. For the first time in quite a long while, I forgot about my work. I felt attractive and interesting. So much so that I lost my self-consciousness, my absent-mindedness that came with my head in statistics and theories.

Yes, I understood circling your prey and I quite liked it; but I didn’t expect him to dive in, make his move so abruptly or swiftly.

“I don’t suppose you would ever become obsessed over a man yourself?”

I felt myself grow flush. Actually, it caught me so off guard I felt a bit uneasy. Instinctively, I turned and began packing my things again. But, I didn’t tell him to leave.

“Professor Keilty,” he said in such a familiar way that I felt somewhat comfortable again.

I turned and looked at him. He inspected me for a time. A yearning welled up in me. Was this just flirtation? Attraction? I could see why my topic of research might elicit a response such as this one, but I would have thought professional protocol, particularly at a University, would have prevented a man from being so bold. For coming on so strong. Then, I doubted myself. Perhaps, this line of questioning was truly academic, rational?

He didn’t say anything to correct himself or try and excuse his boldness. Nor did he show any intention of giving up. It’s hard to describe, but his self-assuredness and lack of restraint — his handsome face and masculinity — made me break the silence.

“Yes. I’m thinking. Could I become obsessed over a man?” I considered it, I tried to package it into my research and theory. I tried to translate it into an academic, logical question —

“I think you could. I think anyone could.” He said matter-of-factly, interrupting my thoughts.

At first, I felt light-headed and embarrassed, but then a powerful desire came over me. This seemed to be a challenge. He wanted to test my ego strength. He wanted to prove that my theory and research was flawed. He was engaging me in a power struggle. I knew better. I could never become obsessed. That was a pathological response to intimacy. I’d had no terrible experiences as a child. No rejection. As far as I remember, even as a young woman, my love was free of those sorts of complications. I’ve never longed for anyone. Yes, I’ve felt hurt, even scorned; but I went through the five stages of grief and loss: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I worked through the stages and then moved on. Never clung like a desperate jilted lover.

“That’s quite an impressive list of emotional accomplishments.”

“Are you asking me to volunteer to be manipulated?” I half-scoffed, “Do you have someone in mind or is this purely hypothetical?”

“Yes.” His gray eyes remained on me. He squinted. “I have someone in mind.”

I laughed. “Really? Is this some sort of pick-up line?”

“No, it’s not a line. I think I, very well, could do it. I’m absolutely certain I could make you become obsessed with me. Consider it research.”

I smiled. I rather liked this game. “Well, tell me how you might go about inducing obsession, assuming you can?”

He moved a little closer to me, leaned in as if he were going to kiss me, there in the empty conference room. I knew no one would have walked in. My lecture was after hours; the room was at the end of a hall of classrooms. No faculty offices where a professor might be researching or correcting papers into the late hours of the night. We were entirely alone. Although it was completely out of character for me, I can say with certainty that I would have engaged in a sexual encounter with George. Either right there in the lecture hall or gone home with him. I kept quiet and smiled at him.

I knew he read my feelings, but he didn’t move towards me any further. He didn’t withdraw either. He lowered his voice and said, “I can’t tell you how I’m going to go about it. It’s not something you tell. It’s something you do.”

“You seem very experienced in deviant seduction, I presume you’ve done this before? Often even?” I sparred.

He smiled, and couldn’t help but laugh. “No. I’m doing this for the sake of research. And, for philosophical reasons.”

“Nothing sexual?”

He didn’t answer.

“All right,” I said. I packed my things and lifted my leather brief case. “Well, we’ll see if I become obsessed with you.”

He picked up a remaining flyer for my lecture. Removed a pen from his pocket. He leaned over the large wooden table where I had set up my laptop and my notes earlier that afternoon. He looked up at me for a moment.

“You’re game for this, correct?”

I bit my lip and smiled. Then, I said, “Yes. I suppose I am…in the name of research.”

This time he laughed and began writing on the backside of the flyer. When he finished he stood up and said, “You’ll need to be available tomorrow. It’s Saturday. You’ll need to clear your schedule for 24 hours.”

“Where am I going?”

“Here, “ he said, handing me the paper. “Come to this address in the morning.”

“What time should I arrive?”

“Whenever you’re ready to begin.”

That was my first memory of George. Intense, a little frightening, absolutely intoxicating.

***

Yes, I’m certain we’d encountered each other before the evening of my lecture. For after that Saturday, after our “research” I saw him everywhere. Our lives ran intersecting paths. I discovered that he’d worked at the university for years. I too had been on faculty for a number of years. We were like ghosts to each other. It wasn’t until George approached me that I became aware of him. After that, those moments were forever engraved in my memory. You see, George was my animus. According to Jungian theory, the archetypal man and the archetypal woman complete each other as lovers. Each projects their perfect counterpart on the other. Once George made his impression. I knew he was ideal man. He had a 1940s handsomeness, a likeness to Gary Cooper. Wool trousers, clean white, dress shirt. His hair was a chestnut brown, conservatively cut. When he approached me that evening after the other faculty had left, mid-way through our conversation, I noticed his exquisite good looks. His eyes were the color gray wool. Light, translucent. When he smiled it was seductive: as if we had a secret connection. As if he understood me. His swift execution of seduction, my uncharacteristic spontaneity. That’s what led to that afternoon and night together the following day.

Yes, I’m sure we had encountered each before that evening. He was a well-known philosophy professor and I’d like to think I had a reputation as a good psychology instructor. We were both faculty in the liberal arts department I’d thumbed through his philosophy texts in the faculty library. I read one a few years ago A Discourse on Reason. Still, we had been strangers. After that Saturday in his wonderfully appointed cottage (that was the address he had given me), after I left the next day, I wondered if the “game” had started before the day he approached me. I wondered if he had been watching me, aware of my comings and goings. George. Always the professor. Gray eyes, serious somehow contemplating me; simply listening. I imagined so much happened in his mind, charged by his unusual interest in me.

I’ve wondered since, how many mornings were we on the commuter train at the same time? Evenings across from each other, taking the Green Line away from campus? Rustling of newspapers. Kids with headphones. The electronic phones and tablets lighting the subway car in a blue glow on the evening ride. And, George, the anomaly, the New York Times folded, small enough to manage on the crowed train. Immersed in the article he was reading, taking his time. After our Saturday together, we again rode the same train. But after our affair we became deliberate strangers. Impostors, I suppose. Seeing him the next week, I longed for him to touch me again. I had be so easy to unlock. Had he seen that behind my rational façade.

Since I have no memory of a first encounter with George, I have constructed a plausible scenario: Both reaching for the large wooden door to enter the Liberal Arts Building,

“Pardon me.”

“No. You go. Please.”

Was he formulating a plan, even then?

Why do I go on like this now? Trying to reconstruct something that I was unaware of? Yet, I do. I want to understand. It could have been in the long, paneled hallway between our two departments. I, rushing to my office, my head in my work. Correcting papers. My long trench coat full of back-up red pens, for I was absent minded. I would put a pen behind my ear as I retrieved a notepad from my briefcase. I’d completely forget where it was. I’d pull another out of my pocket and continue my notes in the margins of student papers. It wasn’t that I was so busy, never enough time. I was immersed in my small world. George in his terribly unfair way, extricated me from my myopic reality.

***

In his arms, laying under his sheets –not an hour after I arrived — he whispered, unabashedly to me, his finger tracing my face then soft kisses on my neck, down towards my breasts. Stopping returning to me, his eyes fixed on mine.

“I’ve seen you. You must know that. I noticed you many months before going to your lecture. You must have known.”

“No, really I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have?” he pulled away but not coldly, Couldn’t have? You mean you hadn’t noticed me.”

But, couldn’t was accurate. I couldn’t have noticed him because I was, in some ways, absent from life. I didn’t want complications. It was only two years since my divorce. Couldn’t have. Yes, that’s what I meant.

“How could I have? You’ve so obscured, like a Hitchcock character.”

“I’d like to think I’m not obscured at all.” Had I wounded his ego?

“Well, I’m sure not to others. With me — but to me you were hidden.”

“All right darling. Obscured but now consumed by you.” His words and body promising what was to come. Soon he would make love to me. But, all the while, creating the game between us.

“I want you,” I whispered.

“Do you?” the serious professor again. Skeptical of something I couldn’t know.

“Do you doubt my commitment to our deal?” I was partly joking.

He sat up, the light of dusk casting his shadow across the pale sheets, now wrinkled, a mess on his side, pulled up on mine. Protecting me. He sat on the side of the bed, looked out the window at the spring scene. It was still early, it seemed the hours we had left: the rest of the late afternoon, evening and night. Our time tonight did not seem finite.

When we were together, that one day, it seemed to me to be very fantastical. Very C.S. Lewis, Narnia. That day with George was an opening into an unreal place, a place I will never forget and a world my heart will never leave. It was under that spell that I succumbed, sincerely agreed to his condition.

“It’s like one of those stories,” I mused. “Like one of those tragedies.”

“Like one of which stories?” He asked, his bare back to me. He lifted his hand and ran it through his hair, pulling it slowly to one side. The room was still. At first it was silence that filled the room, then slowly the sounds of life outside rose becoming obvious. Flowering fruit trees just out the window and beyond. Birds of some sort whistling a gentle, low-pitched song. The creek running past the house. The branches swaying now and again. We sat still for a time. I knew he could wait like that. Not patience, but stamina. Will. It was something I have known men to do, this need to display fortitude.

“George,” I finally whispered, “Look at me…please.”

He turned to me slowly. “Do you need more time to think about it?”

“I feel like this is silly. I don’t want to pretend any more.”

He lay down again next to me; he was so close to me I could feel his breath against my cheek. He ran a hand over my shoulder, down my arm and let it rest in my hand. He gently gripped my wrist, then tightening slightly. He held me waited for me to succumb. Finally, he whispered in my ear. “Darling, this is not pretend. Did I lead you to believe it was? I’m sorry if I did.”

“But why? Is it me?”

“Yes, Avery, it’s you.”

I felt as if I would breakdown. I considered rising, getting dressed. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t entirely believe George. To me this was still part of the seduction. A rather intense sexual fantasy, but nothing more. That fueled the hunger, and back then, on that spring day, I was burning curiosity. And desire. This was a Victorian narrative. Aristocracy. Costumed in preparation for the games. Desire the currency. Unbearable restraint and anticipation.

“George.” I whispered his name, but could not find any other words. His lips slowly found mine. As we kissed, I felt such a deep possession. His grip on my wrists loosened and again he made his way over my body. I had already lost the wager.

***

After that day, I was indentured. I had agreed to his condition, not just implicitly. I said the words, sealing our pact. For three months, I waited. It became so routine, waiting for him to arrive. Seeing him and wanting him but following the rule. His condition was unambiguous:

“We will spend this day and evening together. I will make love to you and indulge in all of your beauty and I will worship you. Beginning tomorrow we must live as strangers again, only our eyes touching each other. I will find you. Often.” His eyes, gray were intent, studying me. Reading my desire and waiting me out. This serious man had softened. His flesh was warm and his hand on my cheek. “Can you do for me darling?”

“Why?” I whispered.

“Don’t you want to see?”

“I don’t understand.”

“To see how strong you are?”

As I looked into his eyes, I didn’t believe any of it. I felt he was seducing me, just an intense exciting lover. “All right,” I whispered,” I shouldn’t take this all so seriously. I agree to your conditions.”

***

He wasted no time. That very next day on the train, he entered the car. Inspected me for a brief second and sat a few rows ahead of me. I rose and sank, still not believing. He didn’t look back. Instead, he opened the New York Times, folded into a manageable size and began reading. I watched him closely. I felt playful and I considered getting up and approaching him, but I never felt an opening. Shortly after he sat down, George, set the New York Times down on his lap, and looked up. Again, I waited for him to acknowledge me, but soon I saw he was just considering what he’d just read. How could be behave hat way? Knowing I was there a few rows back, waiting for him to look in my direction. He raised the paper, found another article and began reading. How many moments passed on that train ride, as he took his time savoring a story in the newspaper? Of course, I felt very certain he would rise, adopt his affectionate smile. Our deal made me feel as if the seduction was continuing, extending the desire.

The train ride was excruciating, but I didn’t think it would persist. The day after we made love, seeing him on the train –knowing he saw me- I fully expected he would give in, turn and acknowledge me. But, as he with held (the very manner in which he denied me), I came to see that his deal was in earnest. There would be nothing more physical between us. What had the game provided me? What had I gained, the electric static between us? Rows of seats separating us. Every one of us in the car, strangers. All of us, but particularly George and me.

The same on our way home from the university. The sounds of night swallowing the rustle of his paper. For so long I watched him until his stop. On this day after making love, holding him in my arms, I came know the subtlety of his manner. Shrugging his shoulders to adjust his overcoat as he rose from his seat. His slow steady gate towards the train door. His long slender fingers holding the pole for balance. And, when the strain stopped, just before the doors opened, he turned to me for the first time. His eyes would found me, examined me. He almost smiled. After he stepped off and the train pulled away from the station, I realized I had been crying.

***

After a month of anonymous encounters, I knew how to play. At times I thought I had won, that the spell was broken. George was cunning, more so than I. Once I became confident in myself, he added a new twist. He would not show up. I waited in confused anticipation. Once two weeks elapsed and there was no sign of George. I thought it was over. The curse seemed to be wearing off. Truth told, I was glad for it. I had grown so hungry for his watching.

Before that reprieve, we had encountered each other so many times. He must have orchestrated it, knew my comings and goings. For he was always on the same evening train. Or, when I was at Tailwinds, the greasy spoon on the harbor. The local haunt the faculty and politicians frequented. Just as I’d sit down, I ‘d catch him in my periphery, hanging his coat on the hook in the vestibule. Sometimes he’d arrive with colleagues, find a table and discuss work or ideas. Other times, he’d be alone, by the window reading the New York Times. He’d cast interested glances, his eyes catching mine between sips of coffee, looking up over his newspaper. I became a child, waiting for him to acknowledge me. When I was at home alone or in my office, I berated myself for being tricked into contradicting my beliefs. Another part of me tried to understand how I could become this way, just as he said I would. Despite the truth about my feelings, I knew enough to reign in my actions regardless of the intensity of my desires.

That time he ignored me. It was what I needed. I suppose I thought he was gone for good. A part of me felt tortured, but the larger and growing side of me began feeling emancipated. But, it seemed as soon as I began summoning my strength, he returned. I felt no choice, but resume our game. I couldn’t pull myself from him. My eyes kept searching for his attention. When I saw him again after his absence, I was pulled even further into his orbit. I came to crave these mundane intimacies even more. Each charged with his withholding. So often, the same: he entered the restaurant. Stood in the vestibule, removed his overcoat. On a few occasions when he passed my table, he was close enough for me to catch the scent of his aftershave, his fresh shampoo. When his gray eyes touched me from across the room, I felt as if I had reached the end of what I could endure. He’d keep his stare on me, not looking away for quite a long time. But, there were also times when his eyes wouldn’t find me at all. My suffering endured.

***

On that Saturday after the lecture, when I went to his home, a large cottage in the woods about ten miles off campus. I entered his house through the side door, as he had instructed. It opened to a large country kitchen with terra cotta tiles and pale painted plaster. Large beams suspended near the ceiling. He removed my jacket without saying anything. After he hung it in the mudroom, he asked if I was hungry, if he could make me something to eat. I told him I wasn’t. I was too nervous, but didn’t let on. He nodded and took my hand and led me from the kitchen and through a large, impeccable living room. His home was like a French Country estate. One you’d see in a magazine. The furnishings were the finest European antiques, the kind I had admired many times over the years. Beautiful oak cabinets, weathered and distressed yet polished. The windows were floor to ceiling, Italian perhaps. Leaded panes, one set of windows were open, outwards towards the yard like French doors. The curtains were a blue tapestry with faint teal details. I took it all in as he led me further into the house. My heels made dull knocks on the wide planks of the dark wood floor as I followed.

“Its beautiful — “ I started.

He didn’t say anything. I was enjoying the anticipation.

When we arrived in his bedroom, I smiled at him. “So this is where we will conduct our research?”

He inspected me for a moment. I expected that same repartee we had after my lecture.

“Yes, it would seem so.” He said. I couldn’t read the tenor of his intentions. He pulled the heavy quilts and down covers down.

“Here, sit down.” He patted the bed gently. Then, he turned and walked across the room and opened one of the windows. A waft of spring air entered the room, muddy and fragrant. I watched him silently. A moment later a chill entered the room. It was still early spring and while the trees were budding and narcissus blooming, it was still crisp and cool.

He walked towards me, touched my cheek and asked, “Would you like me to build a fire?”

“No. I’m all right.” I said softly. I felt vulnerable and realized that this all may have been too much for me.

He sat down beside me on the bed.

“I feel very self-conscious,” I confessed.

“You do?”

I nodded. He raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

“This is lovely,” he said touching my shirt. It was pale cotton, soft with intricate scalloping around the collar. He touched my neck then began unbuttoning my shirt, slowly.

“Are we going to make love?” I asked. It seemed obvious, I know.

“Is that what you’d like?” he leaned towards me and kissed me on my cheek. He pulled away and waited.

“Yes,” I said.

His mood softened.”

“I want to tell you something,” he said gently, his eyes were affectionate now, his mood shifted to flirtation. “I’m sure you must know that I’ve thought about this long and hard since we talked the other night.”

“Making love?”

“No. Not that part.”

I smiled. “All right, what then?”

He touched my hair and smoothed it with his hand. “This moment is lovely, it’s a beautiful day. You are exquisite. Under different circumstances — “

I pulled away a little. Was he still being playful? “Under different circumstances? You’re confusing me.”

“We are here on a wager.”

I smiled again. Yes, it was playful. “I know.”

“I told you that I could make you obsessed with me. Unable to think of anything else.”

I smiled. “All right, go ahead.”

“After considering this task before me. I spent long hours. In this very room. And, walking in the gardens. Riding the train to the University. I tried to crack your code. How might I induce obsession in this woman?”

I laughed.

“Then, it came to me. You’re going to have to want me.”

“I do.”

“No, I know you want to make love to me, but a sexual affair does not make for obsession. Not the likes of what you were talking about in your lecture. Dangerous obsession.”

“Fine. What did you come to after all this contemplation?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I study intimacy, an expert in relationships. I’m sure whatever your scheme is, it won’t work.”

He considered me for a moment. His gray eyes held my stare.

“Really,” I continued, “tell me your conditions.”

It seemed he would lean in at that moment and kiss me, take me in his arms, but he didn’t.

“Its simple really. We will spend all day together, making love. Becoming lovers.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“But, after you leave tomorrow, we will act as strangers.”

“What do you mean?”

“We won’t speak to each other again. Well, we may communicate with our eyes. But, you cannot approach me. I won’t approach you.”

I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I reached down and fixed the few buttons he had undone. I looked out towards the window, at the flowering cherry trees.

“I’m sorry.” For some reason, I felt hurt. I didn’t feel playful or amorous any more. I don’t know why what he had said hit me so powerfully.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked me.

“No.” I whispered, “I just don’t want to agree to such a thing.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know, I’m not — “

“But you came here knowing this.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Why don’t we walk through the woods? Then, I’ll make you some lunch. We’ll get to know each other. Then you can decide what you want to do.”

I felt better when we returned to the cottage. I decided to block out his proposition. I took these moments for what they were. They were romantic and exciting. He was seductive. Perhaps this would be just a fling. Some anomaly in my predictable life. After lunch, we returned to his room. This time he lit a fire. We both slipped off our clothes and rushed under the covers to get warm. The room darkened as dusk arrived. He switched on the bedside light. As soon as he did, his body filled out, the muscles in his arms defined. Underneath, the wool trousers and white pressed shirt, was a man so perfectly sculpted. I wanted him with me. I was almost ready to accept his proposition. He lay down beside me and gently stroked my hair. He kissed me on the lips before he said, “You are very beautiful, Avery. A beautiful professor named Avery Klein.” He kissed my check softly and remained close. Looking into his eyes was intoxicating. I touched his cheek. It was smooth, clean shaven. I gently moved his hair to one side, just the way he had. I kissed him on the lips. He smiled. I kissed him again.

“Tell me how we met.” He whispered in my ear.

I slowly pulled away and laughed out loud. “We just met.”

“Yes, I know. I want to see it through your eyes.”

He sat up against the wooden carved headboard. “I want to understand how you know it — I want to understand your truth.”

I sat up too and leaned against the headboard, close to him. I stared at him for a moment. “I don’t understand you at all.”

“Not at all?”

“You want to make love to me, but you won’t — “

“I will make love to you. I want to make love to you, but you aren’t keeping up your part of our deal.”

“See? I don’t understand you.”

“All right. But you’re curious?” he smiled a subtle smile. I could see his chest rise and fall with each breath. I wanted to place my hand against him, I wanted to feel him inhale and exhale slowly. I knew there was a rhythm between us.

“Well, yes. I’m curious, but I’ll never find out, if we do things your way. If I agree to your conditions.”

He raised his eyebrows, and touched my neck, then his hand running slowly, descending down the side, over my shoulder. “Tell me how we met, Avery.” He seemed serious, almost stern.

I began, going along with his tone. “All right,” I looked into his eyes. Then, I joked, “We were both hiking in the amazon. On a whim, I stopped and cooled off under a waterfall, a massive plunging — “

He was delighted. “Oh this is wonderful. Much better than the truth. Go on.”

“You were hiking too.”

“Yes, and I’d gotten lost — do you remember?”

“You had. I thought your horrible sense of direction was endearing. You had tired of walking all day so took a rest. Sat down on the side of a rocky overlook, next to a stream. You opened your canteen and took a sip, and your eyes scanned the terrain. You were lost in though — “

“Having also lost my compass.”

“And your map.”

He moved close to me and pressed his body against mine. He was warm and I filled with desire as he spoke, “When I spotted you, fully undressed, the water rushing over your body.”

“Of course you thought you were hallucinating — “

He pulled away and laughed. “Of course! There had been no water in my canteen — I was dying of thirst. As beautiful as you were, it was the water I was so ecstatic over — “ But then, he stopped and looked at me for a long moment. The mood turned serious and this time I didn’t continue the joke.

“Make love to me, Avery.”

“I don’t want just one day with you.” I confessed. “I don’t understand.”

“But that’s what I’m offering you.”

“Why? Are you married?”

“No.”

“Why do you want to — ”?

“I want this to be eternal.”

“How would that make — “ I turned away, started to get out of bed. “I don’t understand.”

He pulled me back to him, began kissing my neck, holding me tight in his arms. “I desire you. I want you. Isn’t that enough?”

I moved close to him, closed my eyes and we kissed. He gently led me back down to the bed. I could feel him inhale and exhale his body moving on top of mine. Both together, his warmth becoming mine. His steady breaths mine. Desire welling up and rushing back and forth between us. His hand slowly traced the side of my body. He gently took hold of my wrist and then the other. His held tighter.

I exhaled and drew another breath. “I want you, “ I whispered.

“Do you understand?”

I nodded my head, and he leaned into me slowly, kissing me. He touched me now, my entire body.

That was my consent. How I entered the pact with him. As he made love to me, I surrendered to my desire. His words echoed; we will never acknowledge knowing each other after today. When we see each other, we may speak with our eyes, communicate silently, but neither will break the pact.

We remained with each other all night. Neither of us slept. We wanted to suspend time, we wanted all of each other and so we filled these finite moments with all of ourselves.

“Tell me how we met.” We both were under the sheets, the light of the morning casting shadows of the leaves and branches across the large wooden furniture, I now noticed the walls were papered with delicate

silver hydrangea patterns. I knew enough now not to ask for more. I had learned in this short time with him that he was true to his word.

I took in a deep breath. “It smells like spring, doesn’t it?”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I want something to keep from you. So you will continue to desire me.”

It was such a serious moment, but he made it light. He laughed softly and kept his stare on me and held his smile. “What a thing to keep from someone. What a thing to want to keep from someone.”

“What a thing to ask someone? To ask someone to recount the events of just a few hours ago. Events you know as well as I do” I was irritated now. It had struck me unexpectedly. But, wasn’t it always there? This frustration. “I need to prepare for class.”

“So this is the end? Right now?”

“Yes. I suppose it is.” I said coolly.

“All right.”

“But as you said, we may pass each other somewhere.” I whispered, feeling conflicted. Frustrated and disappointed.

“We did before.”

“But I didn’t know. I wasn’t aware.”

“Now you are. Now when you see me, you’ll know me.”

“As strangers?”

“No.”

“So I can talk to you? We can have lunch or a date? We can be together again?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see what happens.”

***

I was at the Tail Winds. The coffee shop on the docks just half a mile off campus. The smell of hamburgers. Waitresses in white aprons over blue uniforms. It was the 1960s all over again. Unlike its patrons, the Tail Winds never aged. One wall was covered in pictures of iconic stars: Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, James Dean, Natalie Wood. I tried to imagine a time when they would have come here. Why they would be here? I asked one of the waitresses once a few years ago. She pointed to Nick behind the grill. Nick was old now, but still the same handsome 1950s Italian Casanova. “Ask Nick — he can tell you everything.” I had meant to ask Nick but never did. Every time I was at the Tail Winds –correcting papers, editing my own articles — every time. Looking down, concentrating and then back up again, there was Nick. I’d think, ‘don’t forget to ask him about the movie stars on my way out.’ I always forgot, distracted by running into a colleague or a student. Or, waiting in the crammed vestibule for the doorway to clear, people opening umbrellas, pulling on trench coats. Perhaps before our encounter, one or two of those times, unbeknownst I was standing beside George. Or perhaps he was one of the many professors or politicians making their way inside, pulling off overcoats, hanging them on the already over flowing hooks by the door. I don’t remember George before our day together. Afterwards, I can viscerally recount each instance we were in proximity to each other. On one occasion, both of us waiting in the vestibule for a seat at Tail Winds, he was close enough to smell his aftershave. The yearning was so strong and, as I studied his face, his strong jaw, I felt he would simply reach over and touch my face, caressing it as he had on that day.

On one particular day, I had almost forgotten to look for him, correcting papers, mostly terrible ones with personal messages to me, hand-scrawled on the top of the first page, or jotted on a sticky notes; students pleading for understanding:

Professor, I am sorry that my paper is so rough. I could not figure out how to get my spell check to work.

Or

Avery (some students did take me up on my offer to call me by my first name) — Is this ok? I wasn’t sure what you wanted. I know its only 6 pages and the minimum was 10.

After a short time, my thoughts returned to George. This was how it had become. What would George think? I feel I knew the kind of professor he was, his demeanor different from the romantic lightness he displayed when we were together. I knew he was a serious and stern teacher. In his room that day we spent together, I had glanced over a few papers on his desk, in a neat pile. He had gone into the kitchen to fix a big bowl of pasta for us; I was still in the bedroom, his quintessential bedroom. The type you’d see in wealthy country homes: large wooden bedframe, an enormous French country writing desk which suited the room perfectly, there was than adequate room. Tall ceilings, floor to ceiling iron leaded windows. An old chaise lounge to one side, tasteful but somehow odd, reminiscent of an old analyst’s couch. It was divine. I wondered if he retained a household staff to keep the beds so clean and the room so orderly. It was the most comfortable place I’d ever been. While he was out of the room, I walked about admiring the décor, the furnishings, wondering if the place had been in his family for generations or was this his doing? The facade of a privileged lineage. On the Parisian desk, the student’s philosophy papers were stacked. His notes were sparse, and just as I would expect, his handwriting was masculine but neat, almost that of an architect’s. I could see how he judged their work. I understood his expectations, what sort of professor he was, by the titles on the student papers.

Hume: On the External World

Contemporary Moral Theory: the surprise paradox

The Absolute and the Dialectic in the Philosophy of Hegel

I had taken a philosophy class or two as an undergraduate. But, I have to admit, I felt a little inadequate as I glanced over the papers. George’s engagement with his students. Their writing, his attention and comments. I wanted to understand him in that way too. I wished it had been different between us. Different or not at all. Was I any better than before? Better for knowing George? Better for our obsessive connection to one another?

Thinking of him, I had such longing. That’s against today’s rules. I know. It’s against my own rules. Yet, I agreed to his pact. I must have wanted it too, not just wanted him that afternoon, there must have been a reason I agreed withstand months of yearning. Perhaps, it was more about me than George. Feeling connected but without the complications.

***

This time, it had been three weeks since we last laid eyes on each other. I thought the game was done. No winners. I turned to the student paper in front of me:

Freud asserted that romantic involvements were determined long before partners became acquainted. Partnerships were determined by parents or important people in the child’s early life. Romantic relationships were simply mirrors of relationships with parents. Longing, desire even, are simply unmet infantile needs.

I couldn’t help but smile. Freud. What a field day he would have with my arrangement. What would he call a state of suspended longing? Waiting like a child. Watching him without a word. George. It was almost as if we hadn’t had that encounter, as if we really didn’t know each other at all. If not for his extended stare, into me, renewing this vow.

He appeared again, after three weeks of absence. George was entering Tail Winds with a couple of colleagues, two men I recognized but did not know well enough to say hello. Thank God. That had happened before: a mutual associate of us both, with George. Approaching me, then the awkward introduction. Our colleague saying, “Avery, I’d like you to introduce you to George French, a faculty in the philosophy department. George, this is Avery Klein she teaches in psychology.” Then, it would happen. This forbidden action. His eyes fixed on me, tearing me open. Our hands would together in a handshake. When he pulled away, our handshake left an impression: the passion of touching him as a stranger.

They sat at the large, round table on the deck by the window. Despite summer approaching, the large windows were still covered in plastic. That gave an impressionistic look to the three of them. A muted gray with patches of red or green where boats sat moored. The New York Times. His coat. I knew the fabric of his clothes held his scent. A light musky aftershave and underneath, the faint smell of spray starch. I could not say how but since we were together, I’ve come to know so much about him. Months of pretending to be strangers. My outward appearance was still the same professor, lost in thought. Underneath was a buried world. George changed the balance of my life. He found me, I know now that he found me long before we consummated our affair. He found me and commanded a devotion. There was no rational explanation for why he took hold.

I was in his game, my wanting him so much. His eyes scanning mine across the outside deck, end of spring term. Beautiful face, square jaw, smooth shaven skin. The smell of the docks, a salty odor mixed with the smell of burgers on the grill. He was talking with colleagues, laughing quietly. Bringing his coffee to his lips, that was when he would look up and hold my stare. This time I knew my longing could not be disguised. I had almost ushered the courage to approach him, perhaps on his way out. Or to call him, visit him in his office. I was going to offer him a deal. Nothing. Unless we agreed to see each other, to get to know one another. But, I hadn’t the courage. He looked away, joined the conversation at his table. He didn’t look back again. Strangers.

I looked down at my work. My mind returned to the day we made love, I agreed to his condition: it was his idea, I would never have conceived of having only that afternoon with George. I envisioned a relationship with him, a sweet and intense love affair, returning to his country house again and again, in his arms, buried in quilts, the fresh smelling sheets. Rose fragranced laundry detergent. That same faint starch from his dress shirt. I wanted his lips on mine and that subtle, almost imperceptible smile I had come to study, to know intimately.

***

I was changing. How long could I have continued? I found myself lost in my thoughts, absent-minded searching for the red pen I had just been using to correct a paper. One day I was picking up my mail in the psychology office. I stopped to say hello to the secretary, thank her for mailing some forms for me. As I waited for her, I noticed her day calendar. It was one of those daily literary quotes. The one for that day read:

There are many victories worse than defeat — George Elliot

That was the sign I needed. After than moment, I readily accepted defeat. In fact, I could hardly comprehend how I had gotten myself into this situation with George. I came to see that he was truly a stranger. Simply a man that I had a brief affair with. The rest, as a psychologist, I knew that this whole encounter must have been in my imagination. Some hidden experience from the past, resurfacing. George was a stranger. He was simply a mirror from my past, reflecting back something I needed to confront and resolve.

***

I can’t tell you how long it had been since I was emancipated from George. I felt empowered as I sat with my student, Elise at Tail Winds. The scents of sea air and burgers grilling, summer approaching. I felt light and available. She wanted to know about graduate school. What should she do? Could I help her up that ladder into adulthood? To get where I am, I suppose. But, she couldn’t know how lost I had been in the time she knew me. A plate of French fries sat in front of her. I smiled and waited for her to continue.

“Professor Klein — “ she started.

“You can call me Avery. Really.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “Well, I wish I knew what I wanted to do. I think graduate school. But, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

I looked up for the waitress, for a refill on my coffee. In my line of sight George was entering the cafe, alone. I suppose it had been at least a couple of weeks since I chose to find him. I no longer boarded the 7:20 train back to town. Instead, I left a little later and caught the next one. I no longer waited, indulging in the painful exchanges. At first, I thought -foolishly perhaps- that if I stopped playing he would find me and tell me he was ready to be together. I suppose it was more. To be honest, I believed, because I wanted to, I believed he would realize he was in love with me. He would see this was foolish and had run its course. But, he didn’t do any of those things. So I stopped letting myself want him. I ended my obsession. I knew I would run into him at some point. I’d rehearsed this moment, practiced it in my mind, the things I would say or do. I would feign forgetting him. Pull on that protective defense.

Back to my student, pretty Elise now explaining that her boyfriend wants her to go to Paris. She was torn between graduate school and running away with her boyfriend.

Elise started again.

I turned my attention from his glance. He was lifting his hand in a casual gesture, calling the waitress. I knew he was looking for my attention. I sobered. I remembered. I had told myself to stop. To let him go or at least to regain myself. Hunger is one thing, craving someone. But, isn’t it true that one always realizes after a time that something like this is not love? That it’s something else? Something close to…to what? Pathology I suppose. Yes, it was close to Pathology, fueled by desire. This was the dangerous stage of relationships that I have studied in my own research.

I half attended to Elise. One thing was certain, I thought she should attend graduate school, lay a safety net. I said to her, “I think it would be a good idea to send the applications.”

“Yes, I sort of thing so too.”

“Not that it is likely, but you may change your mind about this boyfriend. Or even about Paris.”

“That’s true,” Elise nodded half considering my warning. But, she was still so young. I could see in her round face, slightly sunburned, I could see that she thought I didn’t know how ‘real love’ worked. I was so accustomed to that look in students’ faces. How is it that young people really believe they know something more than those of us who have experience?

I could feel him, but I was emboldened. I knew he had seated himself by the window. Overlooking the harbor, fishing and cargo ship passing slowly or at rest in the bay. On the docks, men working. A different kind of men than him. Yellow rubber overalls, pulling scallops or cod from the boats. Or tying up nets. I could have told you exactly how he held his cup as he sipped the watery coffee, how he scanned the papers he was correcting. A red pen in his hand, his long fingers unconsciously sliding over it, contemplating what to write. How to comment on paper, most of which –I’m sure — he felt were below his standards.

I could feel myself growing angry about that thought. Below his standards. It hadn’t occurred to me before.

“I have to get back. I have class in half an hour.” Elise blurted realizing the time.

I smiled. “I’m sorry,” I admitted, “I’ve been preoccupied. I want to know your plans. Can we meet another time soon? I will be more available. I promise.”

“Is everything all right?” she asked, but it was stilted. Despite our relationship, she wasn’t sure whether to be informal. I liked to keep it that way, keep a line between the students and myself.

“Oh thank you for asking. Everything’s fine.”

Elise was gone. And now, with both of us in the restaurant, each at our own table, I felt as if I were playing again. My very presence in Tail Winds. The old script. He, I’m sure, had glanced over many times in my direction, looking for what once was. It occurred to me, that it was remarkable. That an enough time had passed. And, here he was. He had been on campus all along. Teaching. Perhaps playing the game with someone else. Another woman, unlike me.

The waitress walked in my direction. For a split second, I imagined that George had sent a message to me, as they would have done in one of those 1940s movies. Yet again, a way to communicate without touching. But, I was wrong. Remember, George had fortitude. He had the will of seven men. I knew somewhere locked inside of myself, within this secret that has formed. I knew if I wasn’t careful, George could take me whenever he wanted me.

“More coffee?” The waitress. Wire rimed half glasses, reading glasses, on the tip of her nose.

“No, just the check please.”

It wasn’t escaping.

I wasn’t avoiding him.

I was changing the game.

I paid the check and walked towards the vestibule. I didn’t turn to see George’s reaction, but I could only imagine. I found my sunglasses and put them on, then I left. Outside, I found I was terrible shaken up. I hadn’t realized it with the adrenalin and the sheer will to break free from him. It was a warm day and the cobble stone street was full of traffic. I walked to the corner and waited for the light. I felt myself calming down as I crossed and entered Tower Park, a sprawling city park between Tail Winds and the University. It would be a lovely day to meander through, take in the voluminous trees with large maple leaves, forming a glowing green canopy. The paths were cobblestone too, and my heels clacked unevenly as I made my way into the park. Despite the uplifting scene, I was exhausted. I needed to sit and rest. Something had happened with the ending. Cutting loose from the psychological affair. It was as if the game, not George, had won. I was not myself. I sat and breathed in the pungent air, hints of jasmine, cedar, and still the salty air from the bay. I removed my sunglasses. I closed my eyes for a moment and my senses heightened. The cool air combined with the warm sun on my face. I sense him, then I felt George’s warm hand on mine. I was afraid to open my eyes. I had surrendered everything. I had nothing left.

“Avery,” he whispered. “Open your eyes.”

“George,” I whispered. He was there, beside me on the bench.

“Shh,” he said softly.

I felt him drawing closer, as he did his faint aftershave stirred feelings inside me. His lips finally were on mine. Soft. Warm.

Electricity ran through me. I started to rise, but he took my hand and gently motioned for me to sit back down. I did.

“George. What are you doing?”

“You’ve left me.” He was serious, vulnerable even.

“But, I haven’t been with you. I’ve just been wanting you.”

“You don’t want me any more?”

I felt myself turning flush; I felt that world rushing back. The world of that afternoon. Narnia. The wind blew through the leaves and this day, too, was becoming spectacular. I could see that my life would be unexpectedly punctuated with surreal perfection, but it would remain in stasis.

“What do you want Avery?” He placed his hand on my cheek, slowly traced my lips with his finger, and held it there. I could feel my heart racing and the abandon. I could feel my will fade.

“Why did you break the pact?” I asked him. I moved his hand, pulling it back down to the bench. I held mine of top of his, telling him no. No he couldn’t touch me like that anytime he decided.

“The rule was for you to watch me. For you to act as a stranger.”

“No it wasn’t.” I said, “We both were not allowed to speak.”

He pursed his lips, inspected me. “Are you finished with this, Avery?”

Was I done? If this was a game, was the objective to find ways to turn the tables. That’s what I’d done, wasn’t it? It was unconscious and I was just protecting myself these last few weeks. Letting go. Ignoring him. Feeling as if I had surrendered, because I felt abandoned, hurt. One would say was trying to “move on” if this had been a break up. But now I understood. This was a match of desire, of wills.

I straightened, held myself like the professor I was. “No. I’m not finished.”

He pulled back and looked both pleased and hesitant.

“I’m not finished with us, but I don’t want to play this game any more.”

“All right then. We won’t play any longer. It’s done.”

“And we’ll be together?” I completed my offer.

“Of course. Yes. We’ll be together. But, first before we head back to campus, ” he said half-smiling, “tell me the story of how we met.”

“When?” I asked him. “How we met today? Three months ago? Or when we met the first time?”

“The first time.”

“Should I tell it like a fairy tale? A mystery novel? How should I tell it darling?”

“Tell it honestly.”

George moved in closer. He kissed my lips, first softly passionately. He ran his fingers through my hair. “I worship you,” he whispered, “I worship you, Avery.”

— Fin —