Looker

by Laura Sims

  It’s 7 p.m.: still no answer from Bernardo. Cool, professorial, I tell myself, breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth. Does he work? I seem to remember he doesn’t. That he’s independently wealthy or something. Entitled rich boy—thinks he can ignore my gently disguised commands and get away with it. I resist the urge to read the revised poem again, afraid it will send me back to the couch.

  Midnight: NO ANSWER. Who does he think he is?

  The e-mail arrives when I least expect it: six the next morning. I am already awake, staring blearily at the screen, when it pops into view.

  Dear Professor, thank you for your insights. I do not understand “purple” and did not understand it when Joanne said it, either. What is “purple”? Is it because the poem is about sex? You have always told us that poetry is a space free of judgment and censorship. Perhaps we can discuss this after the next class? I’ll buy the first round. Bernardo

  I’ll buy the first round. Wow. His impertinence drives me to hit Reply and type:

  Purple means it is over-the-top, excessive, outrageous, and poorly written. Too many adjectives, too much emotion, too much gratuitous sex. I would appreciate it if you would simply take my critique as it should be taken: as wise words from your professor. Now do the work: write a new poem or revise this one carefully, and turn in your final version to me in class.

  There. The final word. I’m proud of myself for not responding to the drinks invite—except indirectly, by italicizing your professor. A subtle show of strength: I’m in charge, you idiot. I hit Send and then read back through the entire thread, beginning with his note about the revision. My heartbeat spikes when I get to the revised poem:

  Dear Ms. X, / Last night after class, when your warm thigh pressed / against mine / when our lips touched the rims / of our glasses at just the same time / I heard you gasp / like the sound you made when our / arms and legs tangled / in sweat-drenched sheets / breaths mingling / souls touching / when we reached out and grasped the divine.

  What? Where was the poem I’d read earlier today? I scroll through the exchange, searching for the word cock, but it isn’t there. I even do a Search and Find, my fingers shaking. Nothing. Cock isn’t there. The version I read has vanished, replaced with this anodyne rewrite. Where had the dirtier poem gone? Into the ether, with all of the other things I’ve lost.

  *

  Though I’ve coaxed a shell of calm superiority into place, it utterly crumbles when I step into the classroom and see Bernardo. It’s as if everyone can see me masturbating on the couch to his erotic poem—the one that apparently didn’t exist—gasping my final satisfaction. His mouth opens as if he might speak. I give him a severe look that says, Quiet, and he shuts his mouth again—like an obedient fish. But as I’m reaching into my bag, pulling out books, pens, and stapled copies I’ve made for today’s discussion on postwar collage poetry, Bernardo slides around his desk, comes up to me, and clears his throat. When he talks it’s low, so hushed in fact that I have to lean close to hear him. “I’m sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I just didn’t understand what you meant. Honestly. Poetry’s hard for me.” I’m looking in his eyes the whole time but I can smell his sincerity—it’s the smell of his nervous sweat, a sharp, masculine scent that makes my nipples harden. I wonder momentarily if he can see them, my outsized pink nipples, poking at him through the thin material of my fussy silk blouse. I haven’t said a word yet; I’ve tried to keep my gaze cool and distant, but he must sense some kind of give in me—he smiles and starts to relax back into his loose, languorous self. Meanwhile, six pairs of eyes look on, six pairs of ears strain to catch what passes between us. I try to think of them, the others, when I respond. “I accept your apology, Bernardo,” I say in my sternest teacher’s voice. “I know it can be hard to take criticism.” He nods solemnly. “I’ll do better, Professor,” he says, but it sounds half-hearted. Even a little snide? Like he’s smirking beneath the show of earnestness. I watch him walk back to his desk and take his seat.

  Bernardo keeps his deep brown eyes on me all night—not apologetically or carefully or respectfully—but on me. Expectant, warm, and electric. Even so, the class runs smoothly. I lecture a bit on the Objectivist poets, introduce them to Lorine Niedecker—one of my personal favorites—and they seem to enjoy it. With each passing moment, I feel returned to my rightful position on the dais that lifts professors up and out of the fray. I am Professor T tonight. The students have tilted their heads back so they can see me up here—their eyes fix on mine adoringly, their ears catch my every word, and their hearts beat steadily, thump thump thump, so assured are they in my presence, so reassured by my expertise and my handling of any and all awkwardness. Students need teachers, just as children need parents, just as I need the actress shining above me, showing me my rightful place in the world. Why, then, do I rail against it sometimes? Tonight, by the end of class, I’m suffused with the warmth of knowing and embracing my rightful place, and the students embrace me back with their eyes as they leave the classroom, one by one, until only Bernardo remains, until only Bernardo’s eyes remain locked on mine, unchildlike and burning with a different fire. A fire out of order in the order of things. “Let’s get a drink,” I say as we gather our notebooks and bags. I can’t say why—or what—I’m doing. Bernardo looks taken aback, at first, but then he smiles, shrugs, and says, “Sure.”

  I lead him to the same bar we visited the other night, down a narrow flight of stairs. He follows me to the back room, which is quiet, dark, and empty. Periodically I try to interrogate myself: when I go to the bathroom, when I wait for Bernardo to come back with our second round of drinks, when we drain the round after that. But my mind is blank. Or is it just deeply calm? I do not know myself tonight. Or: I know myself so deeply and intuitively that there is no need for interrogation, only this placid floating is required. I float on and on.

  We talk about his family back in Italy, his studies, and his plans for the future. He asks me nothing about myself, but I prefer it that way. The noise coming from his mouth is like the buzzing noise that Nathan made when we fought on the steps of our brownstone, but this is a soft buzz, a buzz that draws me closer and closer to Bernardo’s warm body. After the fourth drink, we leave the bar and head straight for his place.

  It isn’t like the poem at all. It’s awkward at first; I sit stiffly on the couch in his Spartan apartment. Bernardo disappears into what must be the bedroom, leaving me to stare at the blank flat-screen TV for a handful of minutes. Finally he returns and sits down next to me. After a few beats of silence, I pull one of his hands to my breasts. He responds quickly. Opens my blouse and dismantles my bra in several swift moves. In no time at all, his dick is out, I’m sucking it hungrily, he’s pushing my head down on it and grunting. Then I’m on my hands and knees and he’s gripping my hair and pumping into me from behind and I’m barking—yes, barking!—with pleasure.

  And then it’s over. “Nothing like the poem at all,” I say, and we chuckle. My head is resting on his chest while he smooths my hair. “It happens all the time,” I tell him, “students and teachers.” As if he doesn’t know. “Has it happened to you before?” Bernardo asks, a slight quaver in his voice. “No,” I say. “No, I haven’t let it.” I don’t explain why I let it happen this time, and he doesn’t ask. The actress wouldn’t clarify. Murky is better. We swirl our hands in the warm, murky waters and sleep.

  When my eyelids open I know instantly where I am. There’s no hazy confusion, no momentary reprieve: I know what I’ve done. My head pounds. I try to move the bed as little as possible as I rise. Bernardo stirs but doesn’t seem to wake—unless he’s faking. I hurriedly dress, gather my bag and coat, and sneak out of the apartment like the near criminal I am. Just as I’m letting the door close behind me I hear what I think is someone calling my name, softly and gently as I’ve always dreamed a lover would. It comes from the inner recesses of the apartment, but not from Bernardo’s bedroom. It’s plaintive and beautiful; it ra
ises the tiny hairs along my arms, but I shut the door anyway and go.

  Once home, I pace the rectangle of my living room rug, holding Cat in my arms like a baby. She lies there, pliant and willing, until she tires of the movement and the feeling of constraint and pushes her back legs against me to leap from my arms. What should I do now? How can I fix this execrable mess? I can’t. I simply have to ignore it the best I can.

  *

  I miss you. Three simple words from Bernardo via text. How does he have my number? Why do I have his? Then I vaguely recall exchanging information over the third or fourth drink, and groan. I set the phone facedown on my bedside table. I don’t reply, but I can’t help checking the screen now and then. I stare at Bernardo’s message until it rouses me—not to masturbate, or text back—but to clean the apartment. To monster clean it.

  Nathan’s the one who called it a “monster clean” first. I never cleaned regularly—he was always after me about it, though he wouldn’t do it himself—but every few months or so, I’d scour and organize every inch of our small home, and Nathan would come home, sniffing the air and grinning. “You did it!” he’d say, as if I were a toddler, newly toilet trained, who’d successfully pooped in the potty. Back in those days, I would feel as correspondingly proud as a toddler might, in response to his praise. After a while I stopped including the spare room in my clean—there is doubtless a thick layer of dust covering every surface in there—and then when things went to hell I stopped monster cleaning entirely. Nathan added it to the list of my infractions before he left. As I go about now, red-faced and sweating in an old T-shirt and pajama shorts, unsettling everything, dusting and spraying and polishing, the spare room stays fixed. A shrine. I can’t see anything through the tape wall I’ve put up for Cat, but I know the pink bike glints in there, in the semi-dark, alongside the cardboard boxes full of treasure. Like time capsules full of the old life, the good life, the imagined life I might have had. All of it, the pristine glory of it, mocks me for the irreversible mistake I’ve just made.

  Hey, the next text says. You there? A little less plaintive, a little more demanding. I thought maybe he would have given up, had his fling with the professor and moved on, but no, of course not—this is Bernardo: the one who pouts over his bad grade, the one who noticed my missing ring, the one who has practically stalked me this whole semester. What a fool I’ve been! I don’t answer. I go on cleaning. Reversing the passage of time. Making things right. The bathroom now, wiping around the base of the toilet. Erasing the stains of human pollution. My pollution, I remind myself. Because I’m the only human left polluting in here.

  I decide to cancel the next class. Not yet, but I’m definitely going to cancel it. I can’t let the anticipation of it ruin the block party, which is coming up fast. Then, after I’ve had a break, I’ll be able to make a dignified return. Bernardo will be silenced by my wintry stare, by my tightly buttoned blouse. But haven’t I tried that before? Haven’t I set out to freeze him, only to land in his bed? But next time I’ll be firm. It will work. It has to.

  When I’m done scrubbing grit and mildew from the tiles, I step into a hot shower and let it steam Bernardo and the monster clean right out of my pores. I step out feeling purified. Wholesome, almost. Cat emerges from wherever she was hiding during all the commotion and blinks at me, then mews. Where is my food? It’s dinnertime.

  Bernardo writes: Really, I miss you. I won’t say it again. Come over.

  Later that night: Please. You know where I live.

  And later still: Why you being like this?

  And at last: You came on to me, you know. I didn’t even want it. FUCK YOU.

  In the silence that follows his final text, and with the help of several glasses of wine, I gradually achieve a state of inner peace.

  I post a message online to cancel the next class. I cite a family death—just like a student would. My grandmother died. My father is having open-heart surgery. My dog has cancer. I can’t cope. Please forgive me. Please give me an extension. I can’t focus on schoolwork right now. Please, I beseech you, release me, Professor. Now it’s my turn.

  Before me is only: the block party. I stare hard at the party and imagine it, shining and whole, like Yeats’s golden-scaled bird of Byzantium hovering just above my horizon. Riding that bird is the actress. She will swoop in, bearing bags full of delicacies, and redeem the rotten mess of my life with one swift touch of her bird’s wing. I close my eyes to everything else.

  *

  The day of the block party dawns clear and cool. It’s supposed to be warm but not hot by late morning, and sunny all day. We’ve had block parties threatened by storms, excessive heat, and even a small tornado once, but this one, the one I will attend alone, newly Nathan-stripped, will take place on a perfect jewel of a day. I dress myself accordingly—I want to shine like a perfect jewel, too. I found a stylish sundress, like the actress often wears, at the hipper-than-thou consignment shop down the street. I spent more than an hour there, fumbling through the clothes—arranged idiotically by color, not size—holding my nose because of the dank smell of rot the other shoppers don’t seem to mind, until I found it. It’s perfect: dark green, sleeveless, with a fitted top and long, swirly skirt. It shows off my full breasts and my trim waist. The waist of a twenty-five-year-old! The breasts of a woman who’s never had children! I’ll wear my long string of black pearls and matching pearl earrings. Black ballet flats. My hair will be ironed into a sleek, shining bob. And I’ll top it off with my big sunglasses and my trademark lipstick that matches hers.

  The actress is coming! The actress is coming! echoes inanely in my head as I dress, sending tremors through my fingers as I loop the pearls around my neck. When I step back to admire myself in the mirror, I wonder for a moment if I’ve overdone it, if my dress outstrips this mundane affair: aluminum trays of homemade food on a Costco folding table, bottles of beer jumbled in with juice boxes in the cooler, Daniel from next door manning the grill, and everyone sweating in T-shirts and shorts, or in simple cotton sundresses and chunky mom-sandals. Oh well. Would she worry about being overdressed? Would she allow a moment’s hesitation for looking better, fancier, more refined than everyone else? Not a chance.

  I’ve abandoned the City Pantry idea and made my watermelon and feta orzo salad; it looks refreshing and delicious. I’ve bought my twelve-pack of beer, and I’ve also bought a superb loaf of bread from the local bakery. My apartment may be empty, my bank account may be dwindling, but here I am, fashionably dressed, lightly perfumed, and looking slim and elegant in the mirror. I practice my widest, most confident smile. “No, Nathan and I aren’t together anymore,” I’ll say, holding an imagined interrogator’s gaze. “We separated amicably . . . it’s fine!”

  When I see the bouncy house filling with air, I know it’s time to go outside. Mrs. H is already down there, cane in hand, waving it in the air sometimes to emphasize a point or indicate a direction to her willing servants (my neighbors). I’ll be joining those fools in just a few moments.

  I give Cat an affectionate scratch behind the ears—those soft little ears, pink as shells inside—and close the door.

  No one looks up, not even the relentlessly observant Mrs. H, when I step out of the building carrying the glass dish balanced on top of the beer case, bread loaf tucked neatly under my arm. Even in my fabulous dress, with my sparkling smile, I remain invisible to all of them below, scurrying purposefully here and there. For a moment everything inside of me wilts—so much so that I nearly drop my dish. But what else can I do? I jut my chin out defiantly and walk down the stairs.

  I’m arranging my food on the table when I feel someone behind me. I turn around and see Mrs. H, breathing heavily like she’s speed-hobbled all the way over to me. “You were supposed to help this morning,” she practically shouts. Is she going deaf? I realize at once that she’s right, that I primped and preened right through my “shift,” but I fake righteousness. “No,” I say soundly, like I’m talking to a crazed child. “I�
�m down here now because I’m supposed to help now, with the food table.” I see something waver in the old goon’s watery eye—a flicker of self-doubt. Good. She makes a noise in the back of her throat and shuffles away.

  I’m the first person to grab a beer from the cooler, at 11:15 a.m. There’s been a long, blurred hour of cordially greeting neighbors, receiving bemused compliments on my dress, catering to the older folks, and chuckling at the kids running straight for the bouncy house. I’ve been eyeing the actress’s front door the whole time, hoping—then praying—to see her emerge. What if she’s out of town on a shoot? What if they’re upstate for the week? My time, my dress, my whole day wasted, and the wreck of my life unsalvageable after all. When the sun is high in the sky and I’m on my third beer and starting to sweat, not from the heat but from the horror of her absence, it happens: she appears, with her two older children in tow. Everyone stays as they were, but everything shifts imperceptibly. The hum of the party quiets a little. No one turns to gawk, but people struggle to maintain the conversations they’re in—“What was that, Bill?” “What was I just saying?” They train their eyes on their plastic forks and sagging paper plates, full of wieners and chips and my orzo salad; they take small, nervous sips from the beers in their hands.

  In that very moment, I’m caught in conversation with one of the women my age—I don’t know her name, I don’t know her kids’ names, I don’t care. We’re talking—no, she’s talking—about the neighborhood school. She assumes I have kids, too—she doesn’t even bother to ask. I just play along. I’m a neighborhood mom, just like her, nodding along to her complaints about the principal, the school garden in disrepair, her eldest son’s “totally incompetent” teacher. But the whole time, I’m feeling her behind me: the exalted one. The actress’s daughters skip toward the bouncy house, hand in hand. Mother follows daughters and suddenly she is standing right next to me. A moment later she steps lightly away from us, closer to the bouncy house, but still in my line of view. I can see her trim, muscled arms and the curve of her neck below the smooth edge of a new blonde bob. It must be for a role. It suits her—like everything does. She’s not wearing a sundress this year. She has on wide linen pants, a sleeveless gold silk shirt, and thong-style sandals. She looks gorgeous, relaxed. Now I feel ridiculous in my extravagant dress and black pearls. But it’s too late to go upstairs and change—that would be even more ridiculous. I try to stand straighter, try to make my outfit feel like a second skin—the way her outfit looks on her.