really should
do something with his writing.
The tension between us dissolves.
âThanks. Iâll be sure to let him know.
Heâll probably freak that I showed
it to you, but I really wanted to get
your opinion.â I reach for the paper
and our fingers brush, initiating
a totally unexpected electric jolt.
Holy crap! What was that? My hand
jerks back, zapped, and my cheeks react
with a furious blushâhalf shame,
half ridiculous lust for a man who is
my professor. A man who is several
years older than I. A man who most
definitely is not Cole. âS-s-sorry,â
I stutter. Stupid! What am I, twelve?
THE REAL QUESTION
Is, why am I apologizing? And,
to whom? Mr. Clinger smiles
at my obvious consternation.
Oddly, I smile back, despite
my discomfort at what just
transpired between us. Or,
maybe nothing at all did. Maybe
I imagined the whole thing.
But I donât think so. There
is some weird chemistry here.
Travel safely, Ashley. Letâs find
a good time next week for you
to make up that test. By the way,
weâre moving to spoken word
poetry next week. Here . . .
He scribbles some names on
a personalized Post-it. If you have
a few minutes before I see you
again, check them out on YouTube.
He offers the paper, and I take it
gingerly, hope he doesnât notice
the way my hand is shaking.
I glance at what heâs written.
âOh, I know Rachel McKibbens
and Taylor Mali. Alix Olson, too.â
His grin widens. Of course
you do. Have a great trip.
I MANAGE
To make it through the rest of the day
without getting turned on by another
professor. Or fellow student, campus
policeman, or janitor. To be fair to myself,
it has been a few months since Iâve seen
Cole, but Iâve successfully sequestered
the thought of sex with him, or anyone.
Until today. But to say what happened
earlier meant nothing at all would be
a lie. In that moment, I wanted to fuck
Mr. Clinger. Jonah. Thatâs the name
on the Post-it, above the slam poets.
Some tiny, niggling splinter of me
was desperate to fuck Jonah Clinger
and all the rest of me believes that
shard is a no-good traitor. And tonight
thatâs what Iâm obsessing about.
Not research. Not writing the paper due
Wednesday. Not packing bikinis
and sexy nighties to wear for Cole. Nope.
Instead, Iâm trying to drown every
recurring image of Jonah in a huge glass
of Chardonnay. Doesnât seem to
be working. Maybe if it was tequila
Iâd have half a chance. Instead, I keep
flashing back to ice blue (not golden) eyes.
I need someone to talk to. But who?
Darian, my forever friend, whoâs likely
dumping her Marine husband for
a guy whoâs definitely dumping his Air
Forceâfocused wife? Probably not
my best choice. My other local friends
are UCSD students with no military
ties. I already talked to Sophie today,
and got her to agree to watch
my apartment. After all the hype
I just fed her about needing to see
the love of my life before he leaves
for Afghanistan, how could I possibly
discuss the seedier side of my psyche?
Brittany, whoâs all sass and easy sex,
no desire for commitment, ever (at least
until she finds someone actually worth
committing to?). Another wrong call.
I PACE THE APARTMENT
Putting out of place things back
into place. Tossing stuff that needs
tossed. Seeking order in disorder.
I dust. Vacuum. Clean counters,
sinks, and the toilet. At least when
I get back from Hawaii, everything
will be in its place and I can dive
straight back into my class work
without having to do this stuff first.
Finally, I refill my glass. Turn on
my computer. Cruise over to YouTube
and some of the best spoken word
poets in the world. Iâm not familiar
with a couple on this list, but before
Iâm through watching, I will be.
There is order in this, too. I can read
my poetry out loud, but this is pure
performance. Rhythmic. Bold.