"You're not selfish," the LSU Professor tells me over coffee. He then shows me an email from an ex-girlfriend, the Horse Lady, who wrote about her high-conflict relationship with her live in boyfriend (although it's hard to tell how much of a boyfriend he is). She claimed that he yells at her, and she yells at him.
I told the LSU Professor, who looks down on her inability to control her temper, that I too lost my cool with my mother, yelling, "Fuck you!" twice.
He just shook his head.
Since Saturday, my mood has dipped, as it's done several times over the past six months (usually returning to normal within a few days). It's a classic case of I like a boy, but he doesn't like me that way. Or maybe he does, and he's just really good at hiding it.
The English instructor entered to the cafe in a ball cap and glasses.
I recognized the glasses, but I was wondering if I would see those shoes of his again. You know, the tan dress shoes that he wears while teaching class. Something familiar.
At three o' three in the afternoon, I had decided he wasn't going to show, and was very motivated to make this time profitable by doing chemistry homework. When he walked in, I didn't even look up. So, he's here, I say to myself, mildly surprised. I give a casual wave, and he says something about getting a drink. No hug, no big smile.
I'm going to convince him that I'm not that happy to see him. I'm interested in that far off way, like I have better things to do (that would be chemistry homework), but since you drove to see me, I guess I'll make pleasant conversation with you. At least I have the dog with me, who will protect me.
The English instructor stretches his hand out to Beck, and she starts to shake. She's never met him before. He makes some comment about how a service dog shouldn't act that way. When she saw the poetry professor again a couple weeks previous, as she had been in his class all semester, she put her head in his lap, something that she's never done before to someone besides her family. The poetry professor talked to her, and petted her.
I'm thinking maybe she needs time to get used to the English instructor because he's tall. I want to tell him that she'll grow used to him over time, as she sees him more, but I don't want him to think that I assume we'll keep seeing each other. So, I don't say anything.
Or maybe she senses impending doom. Like a dog who can sniff out bombs, only she can smell romantic tragedies right before they explode.
The English instructor gets a bagel, but he doesn't butter it or put cream cheese on it. He breaks it up into little pieces, completely dry, and eats it.
He reminds me of Morpheus this way. Morpheus ate two tacos from Burger King without even a napkin. He just gingerly put it in his mouth, never making a mess. It's as if his mother told him people in high status have great table manners, and he tattooed that into his memory, and held on to it since then.
I see under his shirt, on his right arm, the English instructor has a tattoo, but I don't ask about it. I wonder if he was once wild and crazy (maybe still is on his time off?), the kind of guy who drank cheap tequila until he stumbled home with his buddies or an equally drunk girl, to have confusing drunk sex with the woman, only to wake up the next morning wondering what happened after he left the bar. Or maybe I just think he should be more like me.
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