To Love, and to try to be Loved

      He had his back turned to her. She watched his ribcage expand and contract from behind, traced the moles and acne scars with her eyes. His cheap duvet provided no warmth to her shivering, nude body. After some time, she got up, redressed, and left. She did not take care to be especially quiet or to rush herself, but he never turned to look at her. She slammed his bedroom door on the way out.

           It is so degrading, begging for attention and love.  She drove in circles for half an hour. She bought a large Icee to drink in her car, alone. The embarrassment was a pit in her stomach. After finally making it back to her apartment, she could barely sleep.

In her 9am Philosophy 04: Introduction to Ethics course, she found trouble concentrating on the information coming out of the professor’s mouth. He was 50-something years old, thin, tall, and from the bits and pieces of stories he told during lecture, she had collected a decent pool of information. He had a wife who loved rhubarb pie, no children, a dog, and a few cats. He travelled as much as he could, and he was funny, very intelligent but not in a snobby way, and so kind to everyone, even the worst students who took every step to show him how little they cared about the class.

She imagined when he went home, him and his wife had intelligent and meaningful conversations. After being away from each other all day, they found deep comfort in each other. As often as they could, they cooked dinner and ate it together. Maybe they would separate to get some work or grading or hobbies done, but they tried to go to bed together as often as they could. In bed, they reached for each other. Maybe they still had sex a few times a week, too, and it’s good for them both, and afterwards they cuddle and feel so close.

Or perhaps, he works too much, and she works too. She has her dinner before he gets home and goes to bed before him. He eats alone, does some grading, and although they slept in the same bed, he always turns his back to her, and never reaches for her, and no matter how close they would drift together in the night, it feels as though they are totally alone.

After class, there is an awkward forty-five-minute gap before her next one. It was cold outside; the entire sky was covered by thin layers of clouds which made the sunlight disperse and look white. Sometimes she gets the urge to go to her professor’s office hours, just because he seems so smart and interesting, but she has no questions about class. Yet, today, she found herself climbing steps up to the second floor, greeting the secretary and asking if he was in.

“Not yet, but he usually is here before 12.”

“Okay, thank you,” she smiled.

The floor had twelve small office spaces, and in the middle, a large breakroom with a couch and tv. Many professors had cork boards with inspirational quotes, cartoons, and posters advertising their honor classes or clubs. His was very full, with a poster about the Philosophy club he presides over along with several cheesy quotes, lots of Plato, and a cartoon timeline of western philosophers.

           She heard him greet the secretary before she saw him. She heard him approach, but as if pretending not to notice him, kept her attention towards the cork board until he was right next to her.

“Looking into Philosophy Club?” he asked, carrying a lunch bag.

“Oh, I’m thinking about it,” she couldn’t look directly at him, “What time is it again?”

“2pm every Wednesday, think you can make it? We are quite low on members this semester. Would you like to come in?” He opened his office door and gestured her in.

She mentioned that the idea of joining a club is a little scary, and, stereotypically, philosophy majors are rude, smelly men.

“Well, I hope that’s not what you think of me!”

Sputtering, she blurted, “Oh! No, I’m sorry- “

“I don’t find them particularly smelly, but it is mostly men. They might appreciate a female perspective, and you are certainly doing well enough in my class to add to the conversation.”

Blushing, she nodded.

“Welp, I hope you decide to join us!” He smiled, expecting her to say, “I think I will,” and leave. But she continued to sit. She found it impossible to speak, perhaps because she had nothing to say, after all, she had no questions about the class, and no real intention of joining the club.

After a second, he glanced back at her, “Do you need anything else? Any questions?”

She looked at him urgently. She started a useless conversation asking if he likes his job as a professor, and he prattled on about some pros and cons. She did not care about this at all but put her elbow on his desk and rested her head on her hand, nodding, a little too close, but not enough to raise his suspensions. His regular 5 o’clock shadow was grown out half an inch, brown and grey and white, and his hair the same color. He made little jokes as he explained his perspective, thinking she must be listening attentively, that she must be seeking advice for her future in academia.

           She stretched her feet out, crossed them and now their feet were only an inch apart. He pretended he didn’t notice, letting the tiny professional boundary be pushed.

“And, did you always know you wanted to be a philosophy professor?”

He smiled, a great excuse to talk about the good ol’ days! He told an especially good joke, and she laughed, patting his hand, which was resting on the arm rest. His eyes widened and he laughed nervously, his lips formed a tight, awkward smile and he clasped his hands together over his chest. Too far. There was a beat of silence as he seemed to contemplate saying something.

“Oh! My next class is about to start,” she thanked him and left promptly.  

           She was distracted the entirety of her next class, embarrassment and shame seemed to be drowning her. She wanted to cry. She went to the bathroom and held her breathe. What was she thinking? He was going to rip off her clothes and fuck her on his desk? And then what? She did not want to be a mistress. What would they even talk about?

           After class, she drove thirty minutes out into the country and smoked half a joint of “some real shit,” according to the sickly-looking dude her sold it to her. The country was not really the country, but fields of dirt of weeds that had yet to be plowed through, patted down, smoothed over with sand, and have concrete or asphalt poured over them. There were no trees, no flowers, and no wildlife besides mosquitoes. But it was a little more quiet and isolated than a parking lot in the city.

           After smoking, she was feeling a little bit lighter. Lonely, she sent a picture of the remaining half joint to her roommate, along with a pinned location. Then, after receiving the “omw” text, smoked the second half. She rummaged through her backpack and luckily found a backup joint just as her roommate pulled up.

“Hey bitch, you better have left some for me,” she called as she got out of her car.

“I smoked that one, but I have another. I probably overdid it. I kind of feel like I am going to throw up.”

“Damn, that sucks,” she responded, lighting up her own and inhaling. “Thanks, by the way. How are you doing besides that?”

“I think I am the most stupid person on the planet.”

Her roommate nodded knowingly, “Go on.”

“You know that one hot professor I have?”

“Of course, Philosophy, right?”

“Yeah… yeah… I think I hit on him during his office hours today. Just a little.” Her roommate’s snorting laughter and “oh my god, hahaha, you can’t be serious, oh my god,” interrupted her.

“ I.. I don’t even want to talk about it, actually. From your perspective, should I kill myself? Or drop out of the class, maybe?” She was sitting on the dirt now, looking at the yellow field of weeds.

“He probably has had a hundred girls try to fuck him before. But God, you have balls for that. You could have totally had a sexy, sweaty affair. Did he seriously not go for it?”

“God, I can’t believe I did that.”

“I mean, what about that guy you have been seeing? Tinder guy? The sensitive type?”

“He officially only invites me over to ‘chill’ now. Last night, I can’t believe. I actually had sex with him again, when I know he doesn’t give a shit about me. It was awful, I felt like a sex doll.”

It was quiet for a minute as her roommate smoked and coughed.

“Why did you have sex with him?”

She felt like banging her head against the wall. She let out an “UGHGHHGHHHHHH” groan, and said, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I guess I don’t want to be treated well or something. I’m not acting like I give a shit about myself. So why would he be any better?”

“You know, I think you’re on to something there. Also, how is your relationship to your dad?”

“Oh my god, shut up!” but she laughed, and laughed. She might have cried a tiny bit too.

“Hey, for real though. Stop fucking losers. Don’t bring them to the apartment. I’ll help you vet them out, too.” She put her joint out and put her arm around the crying girl.

“Thanks for that,” she sniffled, and started to truly feel a little better.