bedside lamp, her long dark hair around her shoulders and her arms and legs bare, a bleachedred cotton sundress covering the remainder of her. The soles of her feet were dusty. I thought she must be a little chilly, and tugged the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands as though it might warm her.
“Theo and I were both students in the History Department at our university. Getting our PhDs, we were. Don’t worry, girls, I’m not a doctor. We stopped short of that. His area was the history of religion; mine just plain old American history, with a concentration in certain unpleasant episodes.
“We didn’t know each other well, though we’d been in the same department for several years. He always scared me a little, when I ran into him on campus, or around town. He seemed so indifferent. At department parties he might sit and read a book; in the university library I once came around a corner and found him pressed up against a student—a girl I’d taught in a seminar—his tongue firmly rooted in her mouth. They were practically humping. This was clearly illegal, by all laws of the university, as well as the tacit laws of good behavior, but something in his manner granted him an imperviousness, a candy coating that made him slip easily down the throat of any situation. Maybe it is not so mysterious. He is, after all, a handsome devil.” She appeared, for a moment, to be caught in a reverie of flesh.
“He always seemed to have lots of friends, unlike me—but like me he had difficulty keeping them. I’d see him all the time with one woman, or a group of fellow students, and then the connection would appear to have been severed. They would walk past him in the department halls without a word—with a wide berth, even.
“And then last spring—only last spring!—we found ourselves in competition for a fellowship, one that allowed the winner to spend a year researching a proposed project.
“I remember the day we both waited outside the office of the chair of the department to find out who had been awarded the fellowship. We exchanged some pleasantries, and then fell silent, but soon I found myself distracted from my contemplation of the projected year of intensive research, not to mention the honor of the award itself, by Theo’s graceful concentration—his cheek, the tendons of his neck—as he sat across from me in the waiting area.” Raquel uncrossed her legs, and crossed them in a new configuration. She looked closely at us and smiled.
“Do you know, yet, girls, the rare pleasure of a mutual attraction?” The question was rhetorical. “There is a sensation of illumination, of being held, with the other, inside a bubble of light. It is almost as though you cannot see each others’ eyes because they are so lit up. The glare is infinitely reflective. It casts you back upon yourself if you look too long, and that is the very last thing you want. You want to see the other, for as long as you can.
“But while this experience provides the ultimate thrill of mutuality, it is also a platform for the ultimate doubt: an insecurity that thrusts every certainty into relief. Is it really true. Is it really so. Can I trust what I’m feeling. Is this a feeling? How is it different from delusion. Can I base my actions upon anything contained within this feeling, which is quite possibly a delusion. How will I know if I don’t ask.
“And so I asked. ‘What will you do if you don’t get the fellowship,’ was my entrée, a bold one, implying confidence in my own chances of winning. His reply was decisive. ‘Live with you and spend your money,’ he said quietly, not missing a beat, his eyes on mine longer than I could stand. ‘Oh, really,’ was the response I mustered, and just then the sheepish chairman opened his door and beckoned us into his office, where he made it painfully clear that Theo had won, with his proposal that he drive across the country, intruding upon a different house of worship each day,
“Theo and I were both students in the History Department at our university. Getting our PhDs, we were. Don’t worry, girls, I’m not a doctor. We stopped short of that. His area was the history of religion; mine just plain old American history, with a concentration in certain unpleasant episodes.
“We didn’t know each other well, though we’d been in the same department for several years. He always scared me a little, when I ran into him on campus, or around town. He seemed so indifferent. At department parties he might sit and read a book; in the university library I once came around a corner and found him pressed up against a student—a girl I’d taught in a seminar—his tongue firmly rooted in her mouth. They were practically humping. This was clearly illegal, by all laws of the university, as well as the tacit laws of good behavior, but something in his manner granted him an imperviousness, a candy coating that made him slip easily down the throat of any situation. Maybe it is not so mysterious. He is, after all, a handsome devil.” She appeared, for a moment, to be caught in a reverie of flesh.
“He always seemed to have lots of friends, unlike me—but like me he had difficulty keeping them. I’d see him all the time with one woman, or a group of fellow students, and then the connection would appear to have been severed. They would walk past him in the department halls without a word—with a wide berth, even.
“And then last spring—only last spring!—we found ourselves in competition for a fellowship, one that allowed the winner to spend a year researching a proposed project.
“I remember the day we both waited outside the office of the chair of the department to find out who had been awarded the fellowship. We exchanged some pleasantries, and then fell silent, but soon I found myself distracted from my contemplation of the projected year of intensive research, not to mention the honor of the award itself, by Theo’s graceful concentration—his cheek, the tendons of his neck—as he sat across from me in the waiting area.” Raquel uncrossed her legs, and crossed them in a new configuration. She looked closely at us and smiled.
“Do you know, yet, girls, the rare pleasure of a mutual attraction?” The question was rhetorical. “There is a sensation of illumination, of being held, with the other, inside a bubble of light. It is almost as though you cannot see each others’ eyes because they are so lit up. The glare is infinitely reflective. It casts you back upon yourself if you look too long, and that is the very last thing you want. You want to see the other, for as long as you can.
“But while this experience provides the ultimate thrill of mutuality, it is also a platform for the ultimate doubt: an insecurity that thrusts every certainty into relief. Is it really true. Is it really so. Can I trust what I’m feeling. Is this a feeling? How is it different from delusion. Can I base my actions upon anything contained within this feeling, which is quite possibly a delusion. How will I know if I don’t ask.
“And so I asked. ‘What will you do if you don’t get the fellowship,’ was my entrée, a bold one, implying confidence in my own chances of winning. His reply was decisive. ‘Live with you and spend your money,’ he said quietly, not missing a beat, his eyes on mine longer than I could stand. ‘Oh, really,’ was the response I mustered, and just then the sheepish chairman opened his door and beckoned us into his office, where he made it painfully clear that Theo had won, with his proposal that he drive across the country, intruding upon a different house of worship each day,
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