silly."
"Is it?"
"She's a student."
"A young girl with a copy of Imeros tucked in between her fingers, standing on our front steps, is trying to be more than a student."
"I don't think so. She's just someone who likes the work. Maybe she's trying to flatter me."
"Is it working?"
"Sure it is. I'm not made of stone. I like it when people like the work."
"I thought you hated it when people talked to you about Imeros?"
"What? No. I've never said that," and as he says this it occurs to him that she was projecting this idea. She hated it when people talked about Imeros, not him. It may have bothered him from time to time to have to talk about old work, but he's never hated it. Maybe there is something to what David said about Rachael feeling uncomfortable about Imeros. Maybe she does equate questions about Imeros with questions about Melissa. Maybe this jealousy has always been there and he has just overlooked it all this time.
She looks away from him again. "I asked you the day of the funeral if I should be worried."
"Yeah?"
"Well, I am," she says, looking at him again. "Should I be?"
"No," he says. He approaches her, embraces her. He kisses her softly on the mouth. "I'm sorry if you feel like I've been looking past you lately. I don't want to hurt you. I love you."
"I know you do, but do you desire me?"
"Of course I do."
"But you said—"
"I know what I said, but I was talking about the work. I was just frustrated. That's all. I was frustrated and scared. Frustrated that I haven't been able to work. Scared about getting older. That's all."
"So, this girl..?"
"Just a girl. A student. Nothing to worry about," he says and kisses her again.
As they kiss, they move toward the bed. Their hands find skin, their breathing grows more passionate, and still he can't help but think that this passion, this sudden desire for Rachael has been driven by Joelle—simply from being near her. Even Rachael's dramatic overreaction was because of Joelle. Joelle is the reason for this passion. She is the reason for this kiss.
And now he realizes how much trouble he is in. He has already started to lie about his desire, about Joelle—and with such ease.
He has already crossed lines he never imagined crossing.
He has already crossed the line of Rachael's trust.
Now he knows he can't trust himself anymore. Not when he knows that Joelle is in the world... Across the street... Alone.
The next few days were about as close to perfect as Jacob could imagine. The nights were slept over well with dreams dappled by delusions of Joelle. The mornings were warmed quickly under the reminder that he would go to campus and see her again, spend time looking at her, basking in the light of her attention. And then class would end and they would share a few nervous moments together—like teenagers waiting to pronounce something deeper than their understanding—caught in that space of not knowing how far to push, or how much room to give one's self if things got too close. It had quickly become clear, though, that their attraction to each other was more than superficial, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, for them to maintain this facade of distance that they've barely held between them.
In the afternoons, after he gets home, he has been sitting on the porch swing, waiting for her. And when she comes up the road, they share a knowing look, an acknowledgement of simply enjoying the other's presence.
She spends her afternoons on the steps of her porch reading Imeros, and he has started reading it along with her from his porch. She is careful not to make the mistake of another unannounced visit to his side of the street in fear of a repeat of the other day's awkwardness with Rachael. He is careful to keep his reading of Imeros a secret from Rachael, going as far as keeping other books beside him on the swing for a quick exchange if she were to surprise him again.
So, they've been sharing these afternoons together, reading Imeros with only a street separating them. They spend some of the time reading, but most of the time exchanging glances. He'll look up every now and again and catch her in a stare, or she'll look up and catch him doing the same. Then they'll smile and return temporarily to their reading until their next playful exchange. And he is fully aware of how juvenile these flirtations would appear to an outsider, but the joy he feels in these shared moments is so intense that he can hardly feel apologetic about it.
Besides, feeling like you're falling in love is a sport of youth. Even for the old, love is youth's portal.
One of the happy consequences of all of this is that he has felt that old desire returning. He has something to chase again. He is chasing the girl, but keeping enough space between them to prolong the chase—keeping it sporting before the catch—and there seems to be a mutual understanding of the playful nature of their game, at least for now.
He is also chasing words, which have started coming back to him. At first the words came in little drips. Then phrases and lines started to pop up in everyday situations: during a lecture, walking to and from campus, in staff meetings. He began to feel as though possible poems were coming from somewhere outside himself, as if he were a conduit to translate a larger loveliness.
He was stumbling on beautiful thoughts effortlessly, exactly as he had when he wrote Imeros.
None of this means that he had written completed poems. He hadn't. The emotional swirl of all this has been too rich for him to refine in as concise a point as a poem requires. The words, lines, and phrases are still a jumble. It's all just a soupy swirl that has him trying to relearn the grace to tame inspiration.
All of this—chasing the girl, finding the words again, reading back through the poems in Imeros—has brought him seamlessly back to Melissa. When Joelle asked about her the other day, it got him thinking about her in ways he had suppressed for years. He realized that he has kept her in some silent space within himself all this time, never feeling that she, or the time they spent together, was something he could talk openly about with anyone. In the past, when casual conversation with friends has led his thoughts to Melissa, he has thought to mention her, even if for no other reason than to hear his voice say her name, but he has never felt that it would be productive. It had become too convenient for him not to think about her. It seemed to benefit his better happiness to accept the life he had acquired instead of desiring a life that was already lost.
But he wanted to be able to answer Joelle if she ever asked him about Melissa again. So, he has been thinking about her, retracing steps, unfolding the delicate paper of his memory.
It's a Monday afternoon, one of the two days a week that Jacob offers office hours, and he had waited during these two hour blocks all of last week for Joelle to come. But she did not come.
Today, though, he had seen her from his office window, only minutes before, walking in the building. She could very well be coming to visit Brad, or maybe she has a class in the building that he doesn't know about, but he is hopeful that she will visit. So, he sits at his desk, pretending to be busy, trying his best not to appear to be waiting for her.
A few minutes pass before there is a tentative knock on the open door of his office. He knows it is her before he looks up. And when he does look, she is standing there staring down at him, looking very nervous. But she is smiling the kind of smile that can't help itself from smiling. And she is absolutely radiant, shining, really, from the inside out.
"Joelle," he says, trying hard to keep his happiness tamed.
"Sorry. Are you busy?"
"No. These are office hours. This is when you're supposed to visit."
"Well, that's the thing. I'm not sure how much this pertains to class."
"That's alright. It's not as if I need to ask you to wait at the back of the line," he says.
"Right," she says, and laughs a little, more from nerves than from finding what he'd said funny. "It's just... I wanted to talk to you about Imeros. You know, about what we talked about the
other day."
"OK," he says, standing up. "Have a seat." He moves toward her to shut the door and he catches a breath of her air as he passes by her. She smells strongly of soap, and he can tell that she has showered since this morning's class. She is wearing different clothes from the morning. Earlier she was wearing something more casual, some jeans and a t-shirt. Now, she is wearing a small, white floral patterned dress, and her dark hair is still damp. She has let it down and it is shining as it sweeps across her back and shoulders.
As he stands at the door, and she walks into the room, he can smell a hint of vanilla, and it creates a lightheadedness in him that makes him wonder what it might be like to embrace her, to grab both her arms, find her lips, and taste her kiss.
She sits down and he stifles the urge to look at her legs. He wants to leer at her, but doesn't want to be caught leering. The idea of a man looking at a woman twenty years his junior with such hungry eyes still makes him uneasy.
He looks anyway.
They're beautifully shaped legs, tan and long. They are almost fully in view because of the lack of length to her dress, and as his eyes journey up their smooth length, he is, again, made dizzy by her mere presence. There is something about the air around her that makes him spin.
"Do you mind if I shut the door?" he asks.
"No, please do," she says, and it is clear from the unsteadiness of her voice that she is full of nerves. She is fidgeting with the hem of her