Medicine Man

by Saffron A Kent

  Then he breaks his tight pose and shrugs. “I’d love to help you, but I forgot my ladder at home today.”

  Low and guttural—his voice. It’s a growl, really, and it makes me shiver.

  He delivers the line with such dryness that even I’m confused. Don’t they have a ladder here at the store? But then the complete, yet fake, innocence on his face tells me he’s making a joke, and despite the shivery skin, I chuckle quietly.

  “They have a ladder here. Look,” the girl says, pointing to the dark brown wooden ladder slanting against the bookcase. Her friends are still staring at the exchange between them.

  “I see,” he murmurs, scratching his jaw with his thumb and then drumming his fingers against his biceps.

  There are tight lines around his eyes, flashing in and out of existence. He’s trying to control himself yet again. He hated the interruption, and now he’s deciding how to deal with it. It’s all guesswork on my part, but I’m right. I just know it.

  “I’m totally scared to climb it in my heels,” the blondie explains.

  “You shouldn’t be,” he encourages. “I do it all the time.”

  “Do what all the time?”

  “Climb ladders in my heels,” he deadpans and studies something on the floor—her shoes, maybe? “Ah, I can see where you’re having trouble. Pencil heels. You don’t want to mess with those. Dangerous contraptions. People have lost their lives.”

  There’s a moment of silence. Then, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I never kid about heels.” He rubs his lips together. “Or skirts that make my calves look slimmer. I never kid about them either.”

  “What?” the girl screeches.

  He draws back, looking affronted. “You don’t think my calves can look slim in a skirt? Are you calling me fat?”

  “Wh-What? I’m not… I never…”

  “Yes, so I just had a tub of chocolate ice cream, and yes, I promised myself I’d cut down on sugar”—a sharp, dramatic sigh—“but I slipped up. You think just because you’re blonde and pretty you can question a man’s wardrobe choices?” The blue in his eyes is amused, as are the crinkles around them. I press my lips together to stop the snort from bursting out.

  “I don’t…I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I just came here asking for help.” The girl is irritated and indignant.

  The crinkles around his eyes snap back into tight lines. “Let me tell you a little secret.” He lowers his voice and I find myself inching closer. “I’m not the helping kind.” He tilts his head to point toward her friends. “You should run along and play with people your own age and IQ level.”

  Then he throws the book on the shelf, looks at his watch, and strides away, leaving us both stunned. The blondie huffs and heads toward her friends.

  So the blue-eyed smoker is a giant asshole. I feel bad for the girl, even though a trapped laugh escapes me.

  If that was his show of control, I don’t know what he’ll do if unleashed. I walk to where he was standing and pick up the abandoned book. A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments by Roland Barthes. It looks harmless enough with an unassuming black cover. I wonder why he was mad at this book. I wonder how our conversation would go if we ever talked. I wouldn’t even know what to say to him, except, Hi, I’m Layla, and you remind me of a song.

  Hours later, I’m back at home. I’m tired and want to go to sleep. I don’t even want to watch porn, which I would normally do while munching on my Twizzlers. I don’t watch porn to get myself off, no. I don’t even touch myself. I watch it to feel something, a sense of closeness to someone, maybe. I study the naked, writhing bodies, the erotic frown on the girl’s face, the look of focus on the guy’s. I listen to the sounds they make, albeit fake.

  I try to understand their dynamic. It looks surreal to me. I try to compare it with the one time I had sex. It was nothing like that. The guy didn’t look at me like he’d die if he didn’t get inside me, and the girl—me—wanted him to get out as soon as he got in.

  Well, that’s what you get when you force someone to sleep with you.

  ***

  First day of the spring semester. I wonder why they call it the spring semester; it’s still January and freakishly cold. The snow is sprawled around like a white nightmare and the wind blows it sideways, slapping our faces with chilled flurries.

  Even so, there’s an enthusiasm in the air. New classes, new professors, new love stories.

  The street outside my tower is flooded with people carrying book bags and wearing puffed-up multicolored jackets. I’m bombarded with shrieks of laughter and conversations as I walk down the street to Crème and Beans, my favorite coffee shop.

  It seems as if it’s become everyone’s favorite overnight because it’s jam-packed this morning. I wait in a long line that stretches to the back of the store.

  The line moves slowly, like molasses, and as I take a step forward, I see him. Again. The blue-eyed smoker. He is up ahead at the counter. I can only see his profile—square jaw and untamed hair—as he steps out of the line, fishes his wallet out, and pays for the coffee.

  He walks out, clenching a cigarette between his teeth, and lights it up. No hesitation this time. Has he already lost the battle?

  My legs move of their own volition and I abandon the line, running after him. Even the blast of the cold wind isn’t enough to deter me from pursuing the dark stranger.

  He is eating up the distance, leaving a trail of smoke behind. He is more lunging than walking with his long legs, and I have to speed-walk to keep up. He walks toward McKinley Street where the quad is located, dodging the stream of people easily. I’m not as graceful. I bump and crash into bodies.

  But somehow, I keep the broad line of his shoulders in sight. It’s hard not to, really. He’s taller than most people, his back broader, and I bet when that black sport jacket is peeled off, that back is an expanse of thick cuts and sleek lines, much like his face.

  The chilled breeze ruffles his hair and scatters the smoke billowing out of his cigarette. I can taste it in my mouth, taste the ashy smoke and languid relief that only nicotine can provide. This man makes me want to buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke my day away. He makes me want to whip out my fake ID and get liquored up.

  That reminds me—I am a good girl now.

  So what the fuck am I doing? I’ve got class, and I should be scrambling like everyone to get to it.

  But we want to follow him, my heart whines.

  Fine. Just this once.

  I keep following my smoker. We cross the quad and he climbs the steps leading up to the bridge that stretches over the two sides of campus. I hardly ever take it since all my classes are on the south side, where I live, but we’re going to the north side, I guess.

  The other side of campus is quieter. Cobblestone pathways and benches are almost empty. There are hardly any stragglers here. Even the air is sharper as it blows through my loose hair and swishes around my red-checkered skirt. Here, the leafless trees are dense as they line the path, making it seem like we’re walking through woods.

  At last, he stops in front of a building and I stop a few feet behind him. The golden letters on the red-bricked high-rise building say McArthur Building, and on the side in a smaller cursive font, it says The Labyrinth—whatever that means.

  I enter the building behind him and sounds bombard me from every side. Murmurs, laughter, footsteps. A phone rings somewhere. A drawer is snapped shut. A door thuds closed. It is a hub of activity in contrast to the quietness outside, as though every soul on this side of campus resides within this archaic building.

  The floors gleam under my feet and the unpolished brick walls give the space a homey feel. I want to look around and see what exactly this place is, but I don’t dare take my eyes off him. He walks down the hallway and enters the very last room.

  I follow him and as I’m about to enter the room, it happens.

  He turns and looks at me.


  His mysterious, otherworldly blue eyes are on me, and I’m rendered paralytic. I can’t move. I can’t think. His stare lulls me into a foggy stillness.

  He leans against something…a table. The windows in the wall behind him let the sunlight in, which dissolves as soon as it touches his body, making him glow. He takes a sip of his coffee and watches me over the rim of the mug. Somewhere along the way he got rid of his cigarette, and oddly, I mourn the loss.

  “Hi,” I say breathily.

  “Are you going to take a seat?”

  His rich, mature voice slides over my skin, causing a slight sting, like that of an aged liquor.

  “What?” I ask stupidly, thoughtlessly.

  “Take a seat,” he says again, sighing.

  “I don’t…”

  He stands up straight. “Take. A. Seat.” He enunciates every word like I’m an imbecile. “Or get the fuck out of my class.”

  Class. That word pierces the bubble around me, making me wince. I break his gaze and look around. Sure enough, we’re in a class with twenty or so people, and they’re all staring at me.

  I look back at him, frowning, and study his features. The aged, mature features. The lines around his mouth and eyes. His confident manner. The fact that he is intimidating when he wants to be.

  He doesn’t look like a college-going guy…because he is not.

  This blue-eyed smoker is a professor.

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