Thirst: A Collection of Short Fiction
Page 3
~ O d e t o S e r l i n g ~
Be hind the professor, up high and over the powdery green board, is a clock that has the unnerving habit of jerking from one minute dash to another. The student considers that void, the white space between the markers, and listens, cutting out the sounds of shuffling feet and coughs. Riveted to the clock, she counts off seconds – one Mississippi, two Mississippi – anticipating when another segment of time, swallowed up by eternity, will pass. Suddenly, she is struck by her own criminal boredom. What’s the point of such wastefulness? She pulls her gaze away and blinks at the philosophy professor, a man thick around the middle with black-frame glasses. His lips are moving. “To understand Kant’s Categorical Imperative . . .” And the sentence dissolves into jargon. Her mind segues to other profundities – What he’s like in bed? And would his predilections complement her own?
He has the habit of striding across the room, talking to the air in front of him, flailing his arms on occasion. He’s in his own world, the world of ethics and righteousness and dead men. He stops, faces the class and makes an emphatic point – “morality must be rational.” She scribbles his words into a notebook for short-term future reference. The value of such obscure wisdom only lasts a semester when it can be regurgitated on an exam or paper then duly forgotten. She looks back up.
He adjusts his glasses, an idiosyncratic trait,then continues the path he has microscopically worn in the linoleum. She imagines the bridge of his nose is red and permanently marked from the constant rubbing of plastic against flesh.
“Universality must be applied in Kant’s theory of ethics. Do as we do, not do as I do, if you will.”
His words are meaningless, so removed from her own reality. Still, his passion for the topic is endearing. Passion in any form, she has decided, is admirable. Without it nothing would be invented or cured; no mountain climbed, no stone left unturned. Still, what drives passion may thwart other sensibilities. His pants have a sheen to them, as if he has worn them too long and regularly. His shoes are especially troubling. They are sneakers of no particular brand, most likely comprised of synthetic material that harbors foot odor caused by happily multiplying bacteria, perhaps spirilla, tailed and energetic. She’d rather not dwell on this. She listens.
“For your assignment, take any one of the Ten Commandments, apply Kant’s Categorical Imperative and argue a case for validation. Any questions?”
He looks into the well of the class and, for the first time, his glance becomes personal. In the briefest of moments, they connect. Each other’s face is somehow taken in by his and her optic nerves, flashed upside down, then inverted until each brain has an image. And, remarkably, with this image neurons cross the great divide and an explosion of sorts begins. Suddenly she feels heated. Pheromones are released and a corner is turned. His nakedness is imagined. Doughy, she suspects, and more jiggly than she’s used to. Still, there may be some quirk, some odd trait that she’ll be able to focus on, that will feed the pre-orgasmic state, the growing crescendo of heat and point of no return. But what? His smell, perhaps the hint of cologne, something lemony that soon evaporates as their hearts pound away, as their thrusts take on a life of their own.
He scans the class for any hands. None are being raised.
She then wonders – is he an open-eyed lover or does he prefer to keep his eyes closed? Mentally, she removes his glasses. Nothing is more naked than a person without their glasses. His eyebrows are bushy. That much she can tell. But are his eyes beady or a speckled hazel that changes color? Does it matter? She moves on. There’s no telltale sign of any sexual organ, no slight bulge or thickness off to the side. Apparently, it’s neatly tucked away, buried in layers of material that have been zipped and buttoned. Or maybe it’s retracted and minuscule. Her gaze drops to his feet. Yes, maybe so. Still, there’s hope. He may be the kind of man, who, realizing his limitations, tries harder, who understands nuance – the whisper, the squeeze, the spot both hidden and not. Intellectuals are like that, full of rampant curiosity and experimentation. There may be potential here.
“Very well,”he says. “See you on Friday.” And notebooks are slammed shut.