Aimlessly, she headed toward the college and the mounds of paperwork she had allowed to accumulate. As she waited for a break in traffic, her glance strayed idly to the electronic bulletin board near the edge of the campus.
"Farewell Matt Mullen, Poet Emeritus. Reading Sunday, 7:30 pm, main auditorium."
She experienced major déjà vu mixed with a deep sense of regret. There had been no real contact between them since his final decision to leave the area and her mother's entry into the group home. He'd called once, asking to see Catherine and inviting the two of them to dinner. She'd said yes to his seeing Catherine and, regretfully, no to dinner. Why cause herself unnecessary pain? She missed him, but the sooner the healing began, the better.
On the seat beside her lay a letter to Matt–a small note, wishing him well. She had intended to mail it en route to school on Friday, but something had held her back.
She slipped it into her bag as the traffic broke and glanced up again at the board. Going to the reading would be nothing but masochism. There was no way that she could or would move away from her mother, even were it what she wanted. There was more than enough in her life to cause her guilt without that, like having doubted Matt.
She parked and stared out the window. After a moment, she took the note she had written to him out of her bag, tore it up, and headed for the auditorium. Only a coward would say goodbye in a few hastily penned lines. What she needed was to close the circle in person.
Opening the door to go inside, she asked herself why beginnings were so simple and endings so complex. Which reminded her of what she had asked herself on the ride home from Ashley's at Thanksgiving: Why did the drive to anywhere always seem twice as long as the trip back?
The door didn't squeak this time, so she slipped into the auditorium without making a disturbance. Nevertheless, Matt looked up and saw her. He nodded almost imperceptibly as she took the same seat she'd occupied the first time she had heard him read.
"For a special friend," he said, and began to read:
In all its forms, in all its
Fashions, no matter
How we remember it,
Love is decidedly
Perverse.
When the reading was over, Nan waited until the room had emptied. Matt was waiting for her in the lobby.
"Could I buy you a cup of coffee–Nan, isn't it?" He smiled. His eyes crinkled at the edges. Nan still liked that.
"You know," she said, suddenly remembering. "The last time we were there I didn't put anything in the tip jar. I was going to get change and I forgot all about it until this very minute."
"You tipped. You put in a five."
"No, I didn't. I remember clearly now."
"Yes, you did. I remember clearly. I was impressed. Big spender, I thought." This was turning into an argument.
"Hello," a familiar voice derailed their growing irritation. "Good seeing you two talking to each other before Dr. Mullen here departs these not-quite-hallowed halls." It was very nice to see Dan, who smiled down at her. "When you feel so inclined, there's someone I think you should meet."
She and Matt looked at each other and started to laugh. "Well, anyway." Matt lifted his hand and pursed his lips, pantomiming a sip of coffee. Dan drifted away.
"Well, anyway," Nan agreed. "Coffee sounds like a good start."
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