by Penny Reid
“I’m not. I’m merely pointing out that one person’s decent is another person’s indecent,” came the laconic—almost bored—response. The speaker was Greg.
My body stiffened, and I clutched the washing bin closer to my chest. Within were dishes too dirty for a simple rinse in the bathroom sink. I felt a slight disturbance in the cadence of my heart and realized I was holding my breath. I forced myself to breathe out. I rolled my eyes at my bizarre behavior and willed my feet to move.
They didn’t move.
“That’s bull,” she said, sounding disgusted. “You can’t tell me that harming animals is okay!”
“I can tell you whatever I please. I can tell you that Shaquille O'Neal is my cousin and that James here is having sexual relations with his hotdog bun. It might not be true, but I can say it.”
“Hey, leave me and my bun out of it!” Presumably this objection came from the aforementioned James.
I pressed my lips together to keep from grinning, belatedly realizing I’d been eavesdropping. Shaking myself, I charged forward and into the kitchen. I wasn’t going to turn into a creepy lurker just because I found Greg interesting…okay, more than interesting. Really, I shouldn’t have been thinking about him at all. He had a girlfriend.
“Get back to the point. Do you or do you not believe that having sex with animals is wrong? Do you believe that it’s cruelty to animals? Yes or no.”
I glanced around the room as I entered, nodding to several people who looked up from the debate, a few girls and guys I recognized from my tour of the dorms and subsequent social interactions. I counted almost thirty people crowded in the kitchen, most sitting on the floor, their attention rapt on Greg and a tall girl with long blonde dreadlocks. I recognized her as Simone, political science and women’s studies senior, and she was giving Greg a look that would incinerate most people.
Greg looked untroubled and amused.
“That’s not the point at all,” he said. “And if it were the point, I counter with the fact that farmers and veterinarians frequently lend a helping masturbatory hand in the worthwhile cause of animal husbandry.”
“That’s a different matter entirely. The horse isn’t being raped.”
Greg’s eyes flickered to mine, and he did a double take; his amused expression wavered, his eyebrows pulling low for an instant. But he turned his attention back to Simone. I watched him gather a deep breath, his eyes blinking three or four times as though he was trying to bring her back into focus. I ambled to the vacant sink and washed my dishes; but I kept the water pressure low so I could listen to the debate.
“Hello? Greg…the difference with animal husbandry is the absence of rape.”
“Ah, well then,” he cleared his throat, “what about the great demand for horse on human pornography—yes, that’s right, videos of horses having sexual relations with women. A horse going on a human ride, saddle optional, of course.”
This was met with some groans and some laughter. I cringed, tried not to laugh, failed, and cringed—feeling guilty for laughing.
“Ugh! You are so disgusting! I can’t believe you’re laughing-” Simone glared at several of the spectators, her hands balling into fists. She was obviously seething.
“Is the horse being raped because it’s a vagina and not a hand? Or is it the human male penis that you find so distasteful? Regardless,” he held up his hands and raised his voice before she could interrupt, “the point of this discussion isn’t whether bestiality is appropriate or disgusting. The point I am attempting to make, and obviously quite clumsily, is that it is not possible to give offense if there is not a party to take offense.”
“That is so wrong-”
“No. It is so right!”
I glanced up, surprised by the sudden vehemence in Greg’s voice, and found him frowning. All of his earlier amusement replaced with a fierceness I couldn’t quite reconcile with his horrid joking. The room fell completely silent. The only noise was the slight sound of water from the faucet.
He was gritting his teeth. “You think of bunny rabbits being butchered for fur coats and sheep farmers taking their pleasure from livestock, but you think nothing of actual atrocities, genocide, hundreds of thousands of people murdered or left to starve or forgotten. This country raises millions—if not billions—of dollars for cuddly cats and dogs, yet we do nothing to ease the suffering of and subjugation of those in third world countries. You think bestiality is offensive? I find you and your defective priorities offensive. You give me offense because I am inclined to take it.”
Simone stared at him as though he’d slapped her. It was a terrible moment. On one hand, he was right. But he was also very, very wrong. For these impressionable minds that had gathered in the kitchen, it was a life-altering moment, and something within me demanded that I speak up, challenge him before these young people left this room feeling like efforts toward righting wrongs—all wrongs—were futile.
“You are correct,” I said, turning off the faucet, ignoring how my heart leapt to my throat.
Greg’s eyes cut to me. He was scowling. “Of course I’m correct-”
“You are also incorrect.”
His forehead wrinkled, plain surprise flickering over, then arresting his expression. My heart was thudding in my chest, and my ears were ringing because he was intimidating. But I’d long ago learned how to surmount intimidation and fear. His cold regard frightened me, but I was more brave than he was scary.
“Really,” he drawled, his eyes narrowing, his mouth curving in a slight smirk. “I am so very interested in learning of my deficiencies.”
“That’s a lie,” I said plainly, wiping off my hands with a towel. “But, as sarcasm is an effective technique when debating, I’ll allow it.”
“You’ll allow it,” he stated, his voice impassive, monotone.
“Yes, I will. Even though sarcasm is beneath you. But I digress, as your lack of sincerity isn’t the point.”
“What is your point?”
“I agree. Without someone to take offense, one cannot give offense. That stated, values are important. Ethics are important. Morality, holding truths sacred, is important.”
“Ah, but whose truths do we hold sacred?”
I shook my head and smiled at him, seeing that he was attempting to lead me down the same path he’d just led Simone. “No, no, no. That way leads to ruin and red herrings.”
His eyes lost some of their cold edge, and his lips twisted to the side fighting a reluctant smile.
“The point I debate is not whose truths or ideology are superior. The point I debate is that each of us needs an ideology. We all need something to fight for, to believe in, to hold sacred. Simone-” I motioned to her with my hand, “is an animal-rights activist. No one should be belittling her good work, because she is doing good work.”
His smirk fell away, and he blatantly stared, assessing. He opened his mouth to speak, and I held up my hands to stop him.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Well, maybe not the precise words, but you’re going to say something sarcastic, cutting; perhaps it’ll be witty or even funny. I challenge you to answer my next question without sarcasm.”
His gaze narrowed again.
One of the boys chimed in, “I don’t think Greg can go more than a minute without sarcasm. It might kill him.”
A few people laughed. I kept my eyes on Greg. He wasn’t smiling.
“Fine. What’s the question?”
“Do you hold anything sacred?”
He paused, maybe searching his mind to determine if I’d asked a trick question; finally, he nodded once. “Of course.”
“What good work do you do? How do you fight for what you hold sacred?”
Greg blinked as if he were startled by the question. All at once, his gaze turned thunderous.
I almost took a step back, but I didn’t. I held my ground. “You give me offense, and I take it. I take offense to the fact that you would
stand here and belittle Simone’s beliefs and her work to correct what she feels are grave wrongs when you take no action to fight for your beliefs. It is one thing to compare or even belittle sacred truths when both parties are working toward rectifying wrongs. But it is quite another to rail against a person who is doing something when you do nothing.”
Greg’s eyes flashed, and, though I didn’t know him very well, I sensed he was very close to losing his temper. I braced myself, waiting for the storm. I was good at this. My mother was a screamer. She communicated via threats and intimidation, all shouted at maximum volume.
But his anger didn’t come.
He closed his eyes, his chin falling to his chest for maybe three seconds, and when he lifted his head his gaze was cool, calm, collected.
“I cede the point,” he said evenly, almost cheerfully, giving me a half smile that did not reach his eyes. “You are, of course, right. What good are convictions if you don’t fight for them? They’re nothing.”
I gave him a sideways glare, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the acerbic remark.
He continued, “I acknowledge the superiority of your argument and would like to offer you the services of my horse in recompense, if you feel inclined to…take or give a ride.”
Ah…there it is.
Of course, several people laughed. Simone bristled.
I shrugged, tossing my thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll have to take a rain check as I have dishes to do.”
“Perhaps after?”
“No, thanks.” I strolled back to the sink. “Afterwards I need to give my fish a bath.”
A number of students chuckled or smirked, and I was relieved when new conversations were initiated within the group, a few people wondering out loud if anyone was up for playing Mario Kart. Obviously they’d tired of the ethics debate.
Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to my dishes and found that my hands were shaking, just a very little but enough that I noticed. I finished the dishes in record time, feeling Greg’s gaze on me but not inclined to meet it. I wiped the area around the sink and decided to dry my dishes in my room rather than loiter in the kitchen any longer.
My pace was quicker than I liked as I exited the room, but I forced myself to slow to a stroll when I reached the hall. I had no reason to run away…or so I told myself.
“Fiona.”
I tensed, my steps faltering, halting at the sound of my name in Greg’s accent. I turned, giving Greg my profile. He was striding purposefully toward me. His jaw was set, his gaze half-lidded; as he drew closer I saw the muscle at his temple tick.
I gave him the best friendly and interested expression I could muster. “Hey…Greg.”
He stopped; his eyes, guarded and measured, flickered over me and rested on the tub of clean dishes I was holding. “Let me carry these back for you.”
Without waiting for me to acquiesce, he took the tub from my grip and preceded me down the hall toward my room. He entered my suite. I was several paces behind and was surprised that he knew which door was mine.
I found him hovering just inside the entrance, his gaze moving over Fern’s books and papers, Beth’s vacant space, Dara's desk and mine. He set the tub down on what used to be Beth’s empty stretch of table and turned to face me. His jaw was still tight, his generous lips a stiff line.
I was struck with the notion that he was tormented, that something plagued him. I didn’t know how to address it; I didn’t know if I should.
I offered, “Do you, uh, do you want something to drink?”
“You’re wrong about me.”
I lifted my right eyebrow in surprise and waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I asked the obvious question, “How am I wrong about you?”
“I’ve fought for my beliefs; I’ve fought for them most of my life. But the fight yields nothing. What you did, what you said to those kids-”
“Kids?” I asked, incredulous, interrupting him. If the assorted upper classmen arranged in the kitchen were kids, then I was an infant.
He ignored me, and as he spoke his voice became increasingly dispassionate, “-I understand why you did it, but it’s a band-aid on a wound that festers. People fill their minds with trivial things because they cannot face horrible truths.”
I studied him and saw that he was agitated. Behind his droll mask and irreverent quips, I perceived a boy—no, a man—who was struggling. I had the overwhelming urge to ease his struggle. I started to lift my hands, then quickly balled them into fists at my sides. Comforting Greg was not my place.
Instead, I gently offered, “Not everyone is capable of fighting the great fights. Not everyone is brave and strong and powerful. Let people have their causes. Allow them their victories, when victories can be had, without begrudging the wrongs that they right. Attending to injustice, no matter how small, is always a worthy cause.”
His hands were on his hips, and he was giving me a sideways glare, examining me, though his mouth was curved in a somnolent smile. He studied me for a very long moment, and I allowed him to do so, even though I sensed he was bursting with restless energy.
As well, I became increasingly aware of the strange current building. The atmosphere grew charged and heavy; although I reasoned he was likely unaware and/or immune to it. I felt my attraction for him increasing, ballooning, even given his abrasive comments in the kitchen. I should’ve run in the other direction. Instead I found myself wanting to soothe him.
Also, a tortured Greg was so devastatingly handsome it made my throat tight and my chest hurt. Mostly, I just wanted to touch him.
But I didn’t.
He huffed a small laugh, breaking the tension, and glanced at the ceiling. “You make too much sense.”
I smiled, my eyes widening at the compliment. “I know. It’s a curse.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling the sleeves of his navy blue long-sleeved T-shirt tight over his muscled shoulders. It took all my willpower not to look at his neck. His skin tone was a radiant olive, perma-tanned. It looked like it would be warm to the touch. I crossed my arms.
“Just stop it,” he said, his tone now dry, though I could tell he was teasing.
“Okay. I’ll stop being well reasoned.”
“Good. Be a fruitcake.”
“No one likes fruitcakes.”
“I do.”
“You’re the only one.”
“I should be enough,” he said.
I narrowed a single eye at him, scrunching one side of my face and teased him back. “No. Not nearly enough. I require legions of adoring fans.”
He nodded and this time couldn’t master his smile. “I sense that about you. You strike me as needy and narcissistic.”
“You’re very perceptive. I require constant praise for my misogynistic manifestos.”
He laughed, and it was such a wonderful sound my heart gave a stupid leap in response. I wanted to press my hand against my chest, but instead I held my breath.
The moment of levity ended with a smiling staring contest that soon transitioned into an extremely awkward non-smiling staring contest. His gaze moved over my face, his eyes a tad unfocused. I fought the urge to fidget (and won). Instead I stood perfectly still and gave myself this moment, with him, alone.
Then it was over.
Greg shook his head and pulled his hand through his longish hair. He rushed to the door. “I should go. I have puppies to club and kittens to drown…someplace.”
He left.
I stood completely still for several long moments, staring at the place he’d hurriedly vacated. The small suite area felt abruptly enormous without him in it. I reminded myself that he belonged to someone else. I would never show any sign of outward interest, but I would look. I would admire.
And I would do my very best not to covet.
***
I had a date! In February…on Valentine’s Day.
His idea.
His name was Mark, but I’d nicknamed him "Legs" because he had the nic
est legs, and, despite the fact that it was snowing outside, he always wore basketball shorts. I wasn’t complaining or questioning the sanity of this because it meant I got to look at his legs during class. Though I could have nicknamed him "Smiles" or "Blue Eyes" or “Blondie" because he had a magnificent smile and the loveliest blue eyes and the prettiest blond hair.
We met in art history class shortly after Fern had made me realize that I had a bad habit of not smiling or talking to people. I stopped watching people and started meeting people’s gazes, smiling at them. It made a huge difference.
Legs sat two seats down from mine in the giant lecture hall. On my first day back in class after Fern’s grand tour of the dorms, I smiled at him. He smiled, then moved two seats closer to me, and introduced himself.
Mark was eighteen, a farmer’s son, and the first person in his family to go to college. He wanted to be a civil engineer. He was really very good looking and friendly and sweet. He asked me if I’d like to join his art history study group—which I did—and then asked later in the week if I wanted to grab coffee—which I did.
Over coffee he asked me out. I said yes. He set the date, and we made plans.
Mark gave me a tiny excited flutter in my stomach, nothing like the overwhelming magnetic pull I’d experienced with Greg, but I was looking forward to the date. I wasn’t looking for anything long term. I wanted to experience something new.
Shortly after Mark asked me out, but before our date, I was asked out for coffee by a guy I’d smiled at in my P-chem class. His name was Jefferson, and he was adorable. I’d said yes but then later questioned this decision since I had a date scheduled with Mark.
This was also a new experience. So I sought out Fern to ask her what I should do. I tried several rooms of the girls I’d met and become friendly with over the last few weeks; one of them told me to try Greg’s room as Fern and Greg had political science together and typically studied after class.
My first instinct was to wait for Fern in my suite area rather than go to Greg’s room. Just the thought of going to Greg’s room gave me a wild feeling, hot and flushed, anxious. The last time I’d spent time with him, after the great kitchen debate, he’d left my room suddenly with a hurried and fictional excuse. I hadn’t spoken to him since…
