Previously: She undressed as we spoke … Did she see me watching? Of course … Hey, you’re going to miss the waffles if you don’t get one now … Are we playing sports? …You’re making a joke about that? … We looked at each other and let the fuck yous bounce back and forth.
fernweh (fern-way) n.
1. An ache for distant places
2. Being homesick for anywhere but home
She walked into English 212 and sat two rows up and three rows to the left. I stared at her like a Faulknerian imbecile. I probably drooled, I can’t say for sure. I was lobotomized. If Heston had seen me, he would have charged the bloody baboon that cut out my brains. He would have found none, only Ana, who did nothing remarkable other than exist in that seat and take notes and tuck her hair, so black and straight, behind her ear.
Her ass was a remarkable bit of engineering, so big, so sturdy, so fixed, so sure of its place in the world. We’d heard about asses like that in Oklahoma, they were the stuff of legend, but none of us thought we’d ever see one in person. They were like Machu Picchu or Petra. I am not ashamed to say I took a good, long look as she sat in her seat, and I quietly thanked my God when she paused half way down and looked behind her to make sure there wasn’t something on the seat. She saw me looking at her and gave a slight shake of her head, as if to say, You know that’s not an original thought you’re having, right? I had to had to had to talk to her.
I stalked her for the next few weeks. No, not stalked, paid attention to her. Observed her with interest. I noticed that she would leave class and go to a coffee shop on Halsted. She went there every afternoon and read over her notes and drank three cups of coffee. I had no plan; I just walked up to her one day and said, Hey, I know you. To her enduring credit, she didn’t kick me in the shins.
“Yeah, I was wondering if you were ever going to actually talk to me or just trail me like a some kind of sleuth.”
And that’s how I learned I was not that sneaky. “Um, yeah, well, it’s for this other class I’m taking. On sleuthing.”
She closed her book. “You’re going to flunk.”
“It’s just an elective.”
“I took that class last year. I’ll let you borrow my notes. Oh, shit,” her eyes twinkled with the joke she was about to crack, “I wrote them in invisible ink!”
We talked for over two hours. I was gone and there was no coming back. Mother of God, her mouth, the shapes it made; her eyes, which looked almost arrogant, full of knowledge of a secret place; her name, which was the name of that secret place, the Ana Riviera, full of sunshine and water; and the fact that she would, every now and then, lean forward and touch my hand. If my right hand offends thee, just say the word and I will cut it off and cast it into the outer darkness, for it is more profitable that one of my members should perish, and not that you should cast my whole body into hell.
That was our relationship for most of that semester, talking in the after- noon in that coffee shop. Over time, the conversations lengthened, and on occasion, would lead right into dinner at a noodle place down the street. Did I want more? Yes. I was ready to renounce my citizenship and move to the Ana Riviera. Did she want more? Well, it’s like this, she said, I’m not ready to be in a relationship right now. I just broke up with my boyfriend over the summer, it was pretty messy, we’d been together like, fuck, almost three years. I guess I just need to learn to be single for a while.
Which meant, I’m just not that attracted to you, but you are nice to talk to, and I’m not not attracted to you — if I wasn’t attracted to you at all, I wouldn’t spend so much time with you. Actually I think you’re kind of cute in a duck or squirrel kind of way, but, see, the thing is, I’m just taking a break from guys right now, and by taking a break, I mean waiting for a guy with larger biceps and more DUIs to come along and fuck me until I can’t think straight, because sometimes at the end of a long day I just want that.
So why did I hang around?
Because I also knew enough to know that as the days got shorter and the work got harder, life would seem more immediate and there was a chance — a better-than-average-chance — that sooner or later we would leave the noodle house and go to my dorm room. She’d stand in the doorway and say, I can’t stay; I’d stand with my hips touching hers and say, Who says you’re invited? I’d put my hand on her stomach and she’d close her eyes. I’d start to unbutton her shirt and she’d part her lips and smile. I’d kiss her, pull her inside, and close the door behind me.
In my room, I’d take off her shirt, undo her belt, roll her onto her stomach and undress her all the way so I could see her ass there on my bed, in my room, lit by the lights of a city that could swallow my hometown like the Whale. I would bite each cheek, just enough, before rolling her back over and making her marvel at the hidden talents of ducks and squirrels.
Thank you for reading. Next week starts like this:
Did you hear that?
Then Jackson laments his situation.