she stays behind the desk, her hands on the brown solidity, and takes a deep breath. I can almost see the anger leaching from her, lowering from its dam-cresting strength, receding to something quieter and slower yet no less powerful.
“What do you want, Jack?”
That’s what I wanted to hear. The pragmatist in me knows that when someone gives you the ball, you can command the situation. The simple fact that she has asked an open-ended question means I now have more leverage than I had when I entered the room. If I’m careful, I can control what happens from here.
The problem is that when the cabbie let me off, what I wanted was to show Esperanza the research, get her opinion, and be on my way. Now I’m not so sure. Things are more complicated when you’re past the planning stage. Once you’re involved in the real deal, it can be difficult to stay on script. I’m reminded of all the reasons why this woman once meant the world to me. A familiar longing is suffering through a surprise rebirth.
“I don’t know,” I answer, and it might be the first honest thing I’ve said in a long time.
“You’re not serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“But you’ve got a PhD.”
I think a curse toward Gordon Reese, back in the comparative safety of Dallas. But for him, I would be enjoying my vacation. It’s all I can do to avoid backpedaling like some cartoon character, although the fleeting image of her chasing me around the desk almost brings a smile.
“If you want my help, you’ll have to stand there like a man and let me take a punch. Otherwise, you and your research can walk right out that door.”
I suppose I should be pleased I have her ear at all. In the brief time she gave me to state my case, I could see a flicker of interest.
I’m not frightened. She won’t hit me until I tell her she can. That’s the payoff for her: that I acquiesce to the assault. I suppose that’s where the PhD rears its ugly head; she’ll get more enjoyment having me stand here and take it than she would have received by nailing me with the book.
I don’t suppose I have any real choice. “Fire away,” I say with mock fearlessness.
Right before her small fist connects with my nose, I register two distinct thoughts. The first is the deep sadness in her eyes. The second is that I hadn’t considered she would go for the face. The pain blinds me. Which leaves me wholly unprepared for the follow-up to my sternum, the one that knocks the breath from my lungs and sends me to one knee.
In the time it takes for oxygen to decide whether my damaged insides are safe enough to revisit, I feel as if I’ve been gasping for an eternity. Blood trickles from my nose and I harbor a passive-aggressive hope that the fluid will stain her carpet so as to leave some lasting proof of her brutality.
“You said one punch,” I manage.
“I lied.”
When I open my eyes, and after I see that there are several dark spots on the tan carpet, I look up to find her sitting on her desk, leaning back on her hands. There are a multitude of bright spots that dance over her, the kind associated with my own sublimated pain.
“Happy now?”
She tosses me a clean white rag and I take it and plug up the sieve that is my nose. I don’t even make a pretense of mustering fictional dignity as I get my legs under me and push myself up. Perhaps Romero was right: a woman spurned is a woman best avoided. Still, I’m not sure what frightens me more—that an equally painful emotional deluge may be coming, or that I’m not prepared to run from one should it arrive.
Instead, she offers a satisfied smile and says, “You hungry?”
I pull the cloth away from my nose to see if the bleeding has stopped. I feel no fresh trickles of blood, but now the clotting fluid plugs my nostrils.
“I’m not sure. I just had a knuckle sandwich.” It hurts to talk, and my voice sounds funny.
I’ve elicited a small chuckle from Esperanza. She hops off the desk and retrieves her
“What do you want, Jack?”
That’s what I wanted to hear. The pragmatist in me knows that when someone gives you the ball, you can command the situation. The simple fact that she has asked an open-ended question means I now have more leverage than I had when I entered the room. If I’m careful, I can control what happens from here.
The problem is that when the cabbie let me off, what I wanted was to show Esperanza the research, get her opinion, and be on my way. Now I’m not so sure. Things are more complicated when you’re past the planning stage. Once you’re involved in the real deal, it can be difficult to stay on script. I’m reminded of all the reasons why this woman once meant the world to me. A familiar longing is suffering through a surprise rebirth.
“I don’t know,” I answer, and it might be the first honest thing I’ve said in a long time.
“You’re not serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“But you’ve got a PhD.”
I think a curse toward Gordon Reese, back in the comparative safety of Dallas. But for him, I would be enjoying my vacation. It’s all I can do to avoid backpedaling like some cartoon character, although the fleeting image of her chasing me around the desk almost brings a smile.
“If you want my help, you’ll have to stand there like a man and let me take a punch. Otherwise, you and your research can walk right out that door.”
I suppose I should be pleased I have her ear at all. In the brief time she gave me to state my case, I could see a flicker of interest.
I’m not frightened. She won’t hit me until I tell her she can. That’s the payoff for her: that I acquiesce to the assault. I suppose that’s where the PhD rears its ugly head; she’ll get more enjoyment having me stand here and take it than she would have received by nailing me with the book.
I don’t suppose I have any real choice. “Fire away,” I say with mock fearlessness.
Right before her small fist connects with my nose, I register two distinct thoughts. The first is the deep sadness in her eyes. The second is that I hadn’t considered she would go for the face. The pain blinds me. Which leaves me wholly unprepared for the follow-up to my sternum, the one that knocks the breath from my lungs and sends me to one knee.
In the time it takes for oxygen to decide whether my damaged insides are safe enough to revisit, I feel as if I’ve been gasping for an eternity. Blood trickles from my nose and I harbor a passive-aggressive hope that the fluid will stain her carpet so as to leave some lasting proof of her brutality.
“You said one punch,” I manage.
“I lied.”
When I open my eyes, and after I see that there are several dark spots on the tan carpet, I look up to find her sitting on her desk, leaning back on her hands. There are a multitude of bright spots that dance over her, the kind associated with my own sublimated pain.
“Happy now?”
She tosses me a clean white rag and I take it and plug up the sieve that is my nose. I don’t even make a pretense of mustering fictional dignity as I get my legs under me and push myself up. Perhaps Romero was right: a woman spurned is a woman best avoided. Still, I’m not sure what frightens me more—that an equally painful emotional deluge may be coming, or that I’m not prepared to run from one should it arrive.
Instead, she offers a satisfied smile and says, “You hungry?”
I pull the cloth away from my nose to see if the bleeding has stopped. I feel no fresh trickles of blood, but now the clotting fluid plugs my nostrils.
“I’m not sure. I just had a knuckle sandwich.” It hurts to talk, and my voice sounds funny.
I’ve elicited a small chuckle from Esperanza. She hops off the desk and retrieves her
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