by Paul Hina
had no hope that he would ever again experience life that way—wrapped up in so much emotional truth, so much purity of feeling. There was no hope that he could ever feel as whole with another person as he was with Melissa. But Rachael gave him hope, a renewed sense of the promise of a good life. Perhaps she couldn't offer the elevation that he had once known, but he could know goodness. And he would never imagine betraying that goodness. They have an allegiance, one to the other, a warmth that has only grown stronger through the years. And what they've lost in passion, they've gained in trust, and the knowledge that, without the other, they would be half.
Still though, Jacob can not ignore these thoughts of Joelle. He wouldn't dare doubt any possibility of inspiration at this point. It is too rare a thing, and it has been gone from him for so long that he will not turn his back on it.
As the night progresses, and he and Rachael go through their normal nighttime routines, hardly exchanging words, trying hard to stay out of each other's way as they go through the business of entering and leaving the bathroom, he finds his way to the office, and that window where he had watched Joelle earlier. Brad and Joelle's house lights are on, and, from the darkness of his office, he can see clearly into their house. They haven't put up any curtains yet.
But, still, he can't see a soul.
No Joelle.
But the promise of her presence excites him. It is not a particularly sexual excitement as much as it is a stirring in the stomach that happens when your nerves fray by the mere idea of something important developing, and the fear of not being able to take what tumult such a development might portend.
When he finally crawls into bed, puts his hand on Rachael's hip, and leans in to kiss her good night, he can't help but look forward to turning away from her to face the private darkness of night, to be allowed the freedom of night's silence, to unravel all those pieces of scattered imaginings that have begun opening up within him, all those dreams waiting to be dreamt.
Jacob is in his campus office going over the syllabi for his spring classes. He always works in his campus office when it comes to course work. He has always considered his home space a sacred place to write, a place where his academic life is elsewhere. But, even at home, he hasn't been able to work for precisely the reason he would like to work there: Joelle.
Yesterday, he sat down during his normal morning work time, which lately has involved him looking at somewhat recent, but unpublished poems and working them over just enough to make him feel busy. Of course, they're all horrible, and have been edited so far into the grave that none of those first kernels of the original idea remains. So, with nothing but mediocrity staring him in the face, he's easily distracted. And Joelle was sitting on her porch steps with a book cradled across her thighs. He did his best to keep some distance between himself and the window, trying hard not to get caught staring, but he desperately wanted to see what it was she was reading. After all, it was spring break. She wouldn't be starting classes for another few days. This means that she was probably reading for pleasure.
What literary pleasures entice Joelle?
If he knew, it might give him some insight to her depth, or her shallowness. Or it could mean nothing—could be deceiving. Either way, he wanted to know. But the book's cover was resting on her thighs, just above her tightly pressed knees.
He must have spent the better part of an hour sitting there watching her read, reading her expressions, waiting for her to move, wanting to watch her move. And when she did move, he imagined that she was looking into his window. Still, he was secure that she couldn't see him. He was far enough inside his office that for her to see in on such a bright day—the sun shining brightly toward her—wouldn't be likely.
He was fully aware of what was happening, cognizant of how pathetic he had suddenly become. But he hadn't felt this kind of attraction to a woman since he first met Rachael, and if memory serves, even that felt more measured, less obsessive a thing than what he feels stirring inside him for this girl, this Joelle.
But that was yesterday.
Today, as he leans back in his desk chair, he looks at the picture of Rachael and Sam that sits atop his university-issued desk. He stands and walks over to the window, stares out at campus, and wishes he were at home looking out at Joelle.
Still, he has to acknowledge that he knows next to nothing about her. He knows that she looks strikingly like Melissa. And he knows her name.
"Joelle," he whispers, resting his head on the cool glass of the window.
There is also the fact that she is engaged to Brad, an affable, if not earnest, graduate student. Brad's impressed most the faculty with his work ethic, if not for his intellectual rigor. He strikes Jacob as another Gary, someone who will make a fine professor, but will leave little else behind.
Brad's office is just a hallway away—in an office he shares with three other grad students. Jacob wonders how often Joelle visits. How often is she in the building? Is she an English major? If she were, he probably would've encountered her before. But then again, perhaps he was never looking.
There is a knock at Jacob's open door. It startles him from his thoughts, and he turns.
It's David.
"What's up?" Jacob asks.
"I thought I'd stop and see if you wanted to grab some lunch."
"Really?" Jacob asks, looking at his watch. He'd forgotten it this morning. He seems to be forgetting a lot of things lately. His thoughts are constantly busied by Joelle. "What time is it?"
"I don't know. About 11:30."
"Yeah, I could eat," he says, grabbing his jacket.
"I don't think you'll need that. It's getting pretty warm out there."
"I suppose it is," he says, putting his jacket back.
They leave Jacob's office and begin to walk through the English Dept. halls, passing office after office, walls of shut doors. The building is empty and quiet, the kind of quiet where even the silence seems to have a sound.
"Are we the only ones who come to work the weekend before classes start?" Jacob asks.
"Were probably the only two in the department who procrastinate enough to need to work the weekend before classes."
They pass Gary's office and they both slow a little and stare at the nameplate on the door.
"Have they found anyone to take his courses?" David asks.
"I'm not sure. I know they had to cancel at least one."
"I wonder how long it will be before all his stuff is gone?"
"I'll bet in a couple weeks there won't be a trace of him left in the building," Jacob says.
"Who do you think will get his office?"
"I don't know, but I know I don't want it."
"I'd take it," David says, looking at Jacob. "You ever been in there? It's huge."
"Oh, come on. It's not much bigger than your office."
"It's bigger. Trust me."
As they walk down the hall, and pass the graduate student offices, Jacob can't help but look for an open door, hoping to see Brad, but the door is shut. The lights inside the office are off. Brad's probably spending his last few days of spring break basking in Joelle. And who could blame him? Jacob knows that if he had Joelle, he wouldn't be spending a Saturday alone in his office.
"You feeling better today?" David asks.
"What?"
"The other day, after Gary's funeral, you seemed pretty gloomy."
"Well, we had just gotten back from a funeral."
"You know what I mean. You were very... reflective. Is that better than gloomy?"
"I've mostly recovered, I think," Jacob says as they walk out into the bright sunlight.
"Still looking for a muse?" David asks, half in jest.
"You may think it sounds silly, but I was serious. It's been over twenty years since Melissa, twenty years since Imeros. I'm dying to remember what it feels like to have poetry move through me like it did then. And if I don't do it now, then when? If I can't top Imeros, does that mean I never grew as a poet?"
"Maybe poetry is the art of the young."
"I do believe it's a youthful art, but it's not exclusively for the young. If I can capture some of the uncertainties of youth, I think I can find that place in myself again."
"What do you mean uncertainties?"
"When you're young everything is uncertain. The future is a mystery and you're still trying to figure out what doors are open to you. You don't know who you will be, what you will be doing, or who, if anyone, you might share your life with. Things are incredibly fragile, and yet I think that myriad of potential outcomes keeps you hungry, keeps hope open to all kinds of scenarios. When you're young you can still fantasize about all the things that might happen. At our age, most of what we are is set in stone."
"So, you believe that you could still write something better than Imeros?"
"Under the right circumstances, I do," Jacob says, opening the door to the café for David.
They grab a booth by a window and ignore the menus. A waitress walks over, they order their food, and she leaves the table.
"I've always wondered how Rachael feels about Imeros." David says.
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, it's clear that you've written poems about Rachael, but it's your Melissa poems that everyone seems to hold in the highest esteem."
"Well, she's certainly not unaware of the popularity of Imeros, but I don't think it's something she dwells on. She's expressed some jealousy about my time with Melissa, and the echo that the post-Imeros period has had on our lives. But there's not much she can do about it. It's not as if I can