Imeros

by Paul Hina

toward her.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just looking at the magnolia tree across the street. It'll be in full bloom any day now,” he says, turning, and moving closer to her, trying to dissuade her from coming to look.

  The morning of the first day of classes meets Jacob like a bright light was shot from the darkness. The speed and the jolt of being shaken from sleep is immediate and joyful. He no more than opens his eyes before he is aware of the day's implications, and he has already slipped into the skin of this new day.

  Today feels like the beginning of something new, and just the potential of something happening, something changing, is enough to start him smiling.

  He rises from bed without effort and moves into the day's routine. He glides through the hallway outside the office, keeps one eye out the window as he checks off his morning list of preparations.

  He moves into the frame of the window as he brushes his teeth.

  Stands there with his cup of coffee.

  Eats a banana in the morning light that washes through the glass, filling his office with spring's young sun.

  After several minutes, he realizes that he has been unconsciously humming his way through the morning.

  He doesn't stop.

  Rachael is gone. She is always out at this time of the morning. She rises early to have a swim at the campus aquatic center, and to teach an eight o'clock class, which she has scheduled every quarter since they've been married. Jacob never agrees to teach a class before nine. He needs time to collect himself, to organize his thoughts. Not today though. His mind is free of the usual morning's foggy uncertainty. His thoughts are as clear as a bell already, and ringing with awareness.

  As he heads out the door and strolls toward campus, he is reminded of the beauty of the spring quarter; these nice, cool mornings are the perfect weather for his morning walk to campus. You'd think at forty-two years old, Jacob would remember the affect spring has on him, but somehow the rest of the year does a pretty good job of making him forget. He doesn't mind the forgetting though. Forgetting makes the remembering all the more stark and rejuvenating. And that is exactly how he feels as he moves toward campus. He watches with wonder as the buds start to breathe on the trees, the new tulips preparing to pop, and those beautiful, black morning shadows that dapple the floor of the world beneath the trees.

  These spring mornings seem built for poets, and Jacob certainly doesn't want to take these gifts for granted. If he weren't in a pinch for time, he might grab a seat on one of the campus benches and jot down a thing or two before his first class. But he is in a pinch for time.

  When he gets to his office, he grabs the papers for his nine a.m. class, American Poetry 1860-1945, and moves down the halls toward his classroom with little time to spare. He looks over at Brad's office, sees that the door is open and the light is on. When he thinks he hears a woman's voice in the office, he slows, but he can't tell if it's Joelle or not. He can't remember the sound of her voice.

  His classroom is just down the hall from his office, and as he nears, he gets those butterflies he gets before the first day of any class. It's always the same with these beginnings. The first day jitters never go away. It's a nice feeling, nervous yet full of the promise of newness. At Jacob's age, it's nice to still have that uncertain ache to remind you that there might always be something new around the corner.

  When he crosses the threshold, and hears the chatter of a class full of students sizing up their professor for the first time, he looks up and...

  Joelle.

  She's sitting in the front row staring up at him with the biggest, brownest eyes he's ever seen. He tries to hide the happy shock that rolls over his body, tries to conceal what he is feeling upon seeing her there, which is easy since he is not yet sure how he feels about her being there. He is exhilarated, but scared as hell. His heart is beating out of his chest, and the usual first class butterflies have been replaced by a steady swarm, their wings beating against the surface of his gut. The usual nerves have been replaced by a great panic.

  He grabs a stack of papers and walks up to the first seat of each row of desks. "I'm passing out the syllabus. Take one and pass it back."

  When he gets to Joelle's desk, he says, "It's nice to see you again. It's Joelle, right?" he asks, though he's said her name so often this past week that it's absurd to feign uncertainty.

  "That's right," she says, hardly hiding her happiness at his having remembered her name, a smile arcing across her face.

  The remainder of the class is a blur. The first class is often the most insignificant for a professor. It's more of a paperwork day than a day of real progress. He essentially just reads from the syllabus, tries hard not to look up at Joelle any more than would be expected, makes every attempt to keep his thoughts on the task at hand, and not on the fact that this girl whom he has already developed a quick fascination for will be sitting in his classroom, looking at him, every weekday for the next ten weeks.

  In fact, as he goes through the tentative schedule of the course of study—from Whitman to Dickinson, from Pound to Elliot, from Carlos Williams to Cummings—all he can think is that Joelle will be here to experience all of them with him. Watching her hear them, seeing her learn their words, will be like hearing them all for the first time.

  Suddenly, this class seems like less of a stale blueprint. She has breathed new life into it. Every poet now seems to have an added layer of significance, and he is excited again to teach. That old passion that he has been without for so long is rising within him, and he isn't sure if it is because she is inspiring him to actually love the poetry again, or if he is inspired to love the poetry again so that he can impress her.

  Nevertheless, he is inspired, and is more sure than ever that he has found his muse.

  As the class ends and he watches the students file out, Joelle is shuffling through her papers, and he has the distinct impression that she is stalling, waiting for him to say something to her.

  "How do you like the new house?" he asks. It is the most benign, least probing question he can think to ask.

  "Excuse me?"

  "The house. How do you like it?"

  "Oh, it's nice. I like the neighborhood. It's quiet."

  "Yeah, it can be," he says, and there is a lull that he thinks to fill, but can't think of any thing other than the fact that he is close to her. Watching her move. Hearing her speak. Smelling her smell.

  And they are alone.

  "I've really been looking forward to this class," she says, breaking the silence.

  "You have?"

  "I've been trying to register for one of your classes for a couple years now. They're difficult classes to get into."

  "So I've heard," he says. "It's mostly out of my control. But if you had come to me before, I probably could've found room for you."

  "I wish I would've known that."

  "Well, at least you're here now, right?"

  "Good thing too. I graduate in June."

  "Oh, I see. So, you're not an English major?"

  "No, I'm trying to minor in English, but it's difficult because a lot of the classes I've been trying to get into, like this one, are upper-level classes that offer priority registration to English majors."

  "Can I ask why you wanted to take this class?"

  "Because of you," she says matter-of-factly, and it clearly takes him by surprise. He wasn't expecting her to be so direct. She sees him sputter and explains, "I read Imeros in high school, and when I found out that you taught here, I knew that I had to meet the man that could make me feel the way those poems made me feel."

  He stares blankly at her for a second. Maybe for a beat too long because she looks away from him in what seems like embarrassment, and it is clear that his silence has made an already intense moment border on the unbearable.

  "That's nice of you to say," he says, trying to pull the conversation back from the brink.

  "Yeah, well, I guess you probably get that all the time."

  He did a
ctually, but never has it made him feel as happy and as scared as he feels in this moment. He can definitely feel that something is happening, a rapport is being developed, and he didn't want to let the ball drop. "I never tire of hearing it though."

  "I've been reading it again in preparation for this class."

  "Imeros?" he asks, and she shyly shakes her head, putting the last of her papers in her backpack. "It doesn't quite fit into the period."

  "No, I guess not," she says, looking down at the floor.

  "Is it holding up after all these years?" he asks, worried that he's inadvertently diminished her somehow.

  "Yeah. It definitely is," she says, unable to keep her face from breaking into a smile.

  "It's been years since I've read it. I mean, I've read selections every now and again at public readings, but it's not the same as sitting and quietly reading them alone."

  "I didn't know you did public readings. I'd love to hear you read some time."

  And with that the next class starts to file in.

  "I think we're being pushed out," he says.

  "Right, well, I'll see you tomorrow?"

  "Yeah, tomorrow."

  And as he follows her out of the room, he assimilates into the stream of students, and feels a fullness that pushes his body forward like a wave were breaking at his back. He wants to jump out of his skin, or just jump, shout her name, and throw his fist in the air.

  Of course, he doesn't do any of these things. He just holds onto the vastness of the feeling, attempts to measure its meaning, tries to articulate