Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise (8 page)

“And why is that interesting?” I felt a strange mixture of offended on behalf of Yemani women and incongruously curious and excited by the prospect of his answer.

“I think men will always be arrested on some level by the idea of owning their spouse, of completely possessing the woman they love, of having her unquestioning trust and obedience and admiration. But most importantly, of actually being a man that deserves it all. And I think women—though they are loathe to admit it—fundamentally want to be possessed.”

“That’s repugnant.” I wrinkled my nose at him, trying to hide how paradoxically disturbed and bizarrely hot his words made me. “There is nothing interesting about treating women as possessions; it’s dehumanizing.”

“Not necessarily, not if a man treasures his possession, cherishes her, protects her—it’s about ownership.”

“Ownership? Possessions can be discarded, given away,” I pointed out, feeling a thrill. Our conversation had become rapid fire, almost to the point of speaking over each other.

“So can people. People are discarded all the time. But if you truly own her, own her heart, if she is truly yours, abandoned to you, then you cannot discard her. She is where she belongs, hence the ownership.”

“Possessions don’t have thoughts or feelings; they’re inanimate objects.”

“Ah, but women are never inanimate, not the way I do it.” I ignored this comment because his tone, which remained uninflected, was at odds with the suggestiveness of his words.

“If a husband were at the whim of his wife, it would be called emasculating. But when it’s the reverse, it’s acceptable?”

“That’s not true.”

“Which part?”

“You don’t like the idea of being owned? Of wholly belonging to someone?” he asked softly, his eyes warming and dipping to my neck before drifting to my lips.

“Other than to myself? No. I don’t like the idea of being a possession. Do you?”

“Yes,” he nodded slowly, his eyes no longer cautious. “Yes, I do quite like the idea of mutual ownership.”

I sputtered, warmth suffusing my chest, twisting in my stomach, making me feel breathless. I glanced at the ceiling, then glared at him; I tried to force myself to feel the irritation I should. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“But you like it.” Suddenly his tone changed; it was quiet, intimate, yet tremendously self-assured.

I felt my grin too late; it had already split my face by the time I realized I was smiling. But his answering crooked grin and darkening eyes were worth the transparency of my expression.

He was more than fascinating; he was engaging. I found myself wanting to interact with him.

I liked him, the shocking things he said, his measured offensive abrasiveness, and I let it show on my face. Furthermore I was about to admit these feelings out loud when our outrageous and flirtatious exchange was interrupted and the spell shattered.

“Greg, babe, you’re not dressed yet,” a girl called from several feet away, and I turned my attention towards her voice.

I had to fight the urge to gape. She was gorgeous, and she definitely wasn’t a girl. Towering at almost six feet, auburn hair, whiskey-colored eyes, she had the most perfect body I’d ever seen on an actual live person.

Her gaze moved over me and settled on something between dismissive and friendly. I’d learned early on in my observations last semester that women frequently did this (sizing their fellow females up in the span of a few seconds). I used to think it was something only athletes did to other competitors.

The mysterious supermodel had clearly determined that I was not a threat.

I glanced away and down at my hand-knit socks, blushing again and running my fingers through my short hair. The hot stain on my cheeks was so unlike me, and yet I welcomed the sensation, the uncomfortableness of it. This was a new experience, and I would never begrudge new experiences, not after almost losing the ability to experience anything at all.

She strolled to where we stood, a polite smile on her face, and stopped next to Greg. I kept my eyes on either her or my socks, not wanting to look at this guy I liked, whom I thought I’d been flirting with. But, in reality, he was likely just making sociable—albeit odd—conversation.

“We have twenty minutes before we have to be there.” She paused just long enough to give him a kiss then wipe away the lipstick with her thumb, then she turned to me and gave me a wave, “Hi, I’m Vanessa.”

I returned her wave and friendly politeness with a sincere smile. “Hi, I’m Fiona. I live on that side.” I pointed down the hall.

“Did you just move in?”

Greg answered before I could, “No. She’s a xenophobic hermit who writes chauvinistic manifestos.”

Vanessa shook her head, her smile growing confused, and she hit him on the shoulder. “You’re weird.”

My gaze flickered to Greg’s, and I found him watching me with some inscrutable expression. I ignored it, pushed it from my mind, chalked the current of electricity I’d felt up to my seldom-used imagination and likely one-sided attraction.

Fern was right. I needed to actually interact with people more; observation was only so helpful. I needed to get out there and live.

“Well, I have to get back to studying.” I said this to Vanessa, giving her another wave. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“It was nice to meet you.” She returned the wave then fit her hand in Greg’s.

I turned without meeting his eyes and crossed my arms as I shuffled down the hall, greeting two girls I’d met earlier during Fern’s grand tour
. I ignored
the lingering tightness in my chest and heated flush of my skin.

***

That night I
slept in Fern’s spare bed as Dara and Hivan were still going at it, obviously having made up at some point.

I felt an odd sense of happiness and peace.

When I hit eighteen the summer before college, I began to suspect there was something wrong with me. The last time I’d felt anything resembling a crush or interest in a boy had been during the fifth grade, before I’d been pulled out of school for a regimen of gymnastics and private tutors.

Then, when I was diagnosed with cancer at fourteen, crushes and boys and the future ceased to hold meaning or feel real. By the time I was in recovery, academics held all of my focus. I was determined to leave my parents’ house.

Even so, during the course of my entire life, I’d never been aware or had an inkling that someone was attracted to me.

I thought of Sasquatch and his blatant leering. Even though he was an obvious player, it cheered me; his antics made me laugh lightly into my pillow.

Since I’d gone into remission, I’d often wondered if I was ugly. I would stop in front of mirrors and survey my face, shape, and general appearance.

I decided that I wasn’t ugly.

I had big brown eyes with long, thick lashes. I had a nice, normal nose. I had a nice mouth full of straight white teeth and framed by perfectly adequate lips. My face was oval and my skin free of blemishes. My dark brown hair was acceptable, still short due to the years of radiation.

No. I wasn’t ugly.

Nor was I an ugly person. I was a nice person. And I was smart. I was normal.

My thoughts turned to Greg and Vanessa, how lovely they looked together, how right and beautiful, and I felt a surge of happiness and hope. The momentary interest and attraction I’d felt for Greg was a good thing, something I should treasure as proof that I was alive and my heart still beat and air still filled my lungs.

Haughty and handsome Greg may have been meant for the stunning and friendly Vanessa.

However, given the fact that my heart still beat and air still filled my lungs, surely there was someone out there for me. Now I just needed to stop watching people and actually talk to them.

“No, it’s a
matter of decency.”

“And who decides what is decent?”

I slowed my steps as I approached the dorm kitchen, especially when I thought I recognized the second speaker’s voice. Without realizing what I was doing, I stopped and waited for the conversation to continue. I didn’t have to wait long.

“You’re being purposefully obtuse.” A woman spoke; she sounded extremely frustrated.

“I’m not. I’m merely pointing out that one person’s decent is another person’s indecent,” came the laconic—almost bored—response. The speaker was Greg.

My body stiffened, and I clutched the washing bin closer to my chest. Within were dishes too dirty for a simple rinse in the bathroom sink. I felt a slight disturbance in the cadence of my heart and realized I was holding my breath. I forced myself to breathe out. I rolled my eyes at my bizarre behavior, willing my feet to move.

They didn’t move.

“That’s bull,” she said, sounding disgusted. “You can’t tell me that harming animals is okay!”

“I can tell you whatever I please. I can tell you that Shaquille O'Neal is my cousin and that James here is having sexual relations with his hotdog bun. It might not be true, but I can say it.”

“Hey, leave me and my bun out of it!” Presumably this objection came from the aforementioned James.

I pressed my lips together to keep from grinning, then
belatedly
realized I was blatantly eavesdropping. Shaking myself, I charged forward and into the kitchen. I wasn’t going to turn into a creepy
lurker
just because I found Greg interesting…okay, more than interesting. Really, I shouldn’t have been thinking about him at all. He had a girlfriend.

“Get back to the point. Do you or do you not believe that having sex with animals is wrong? Do you believe that it’s cruelty to animals? Yes or no.”

I glanced around the room as I entered, nodding to several people who looked up from the debate, a few girls and guys I recognized from my tour of the dorms and subsequent social interactions. I counted almost thirty people crowded in the kitchen, most sitting on the floor, their attention rapt on Greg and a tall girl with long blonde dreadlocks. I recognized her as Simone, political science and women’s studies senior, and she was giving Greg a look that would incinerate most people.

Greg looked untroubled and amused.

“That’s not the point at all,” he said. “And if it were the point, then I would counter with the fact that farmers and veterinarians frequently lend a helping masturbatory hand in the worthwhile cause of animal husbandry.”

“That’s a different matter entirely. The horse isn’t being raped.”

Greg’s eyes flickered to mine, and he did a double take; his amused expression wavered, his eyebrows pulling low for an instant. But then he turned his attention back to Simone. I watched him
gather
a deep breath, his eyes blinking three of four times as though he was trying to bring her back into focus. I walked to the vacant sink and washed my dishes; but I kept the water pressure low so I could listen to the debate.

“Hello? Greg…the difference with animal husbandry is the absence of rape.”

“Ah, well then,” he cleared his throat then continued, “what about the great demand for horse on human pornography—yes, that’s right, videos of horses having sexual relations with women. A horse going on a human ride, saddle optional, of course.”

This was met with some groans and some laughter. I cringed, tried not to laugh, failed, then cringed—feeling guilty for laughing.

  “Ugh! You are so disgusting! I can’t believe you’re laughing-” Simone glared at several of the spectators, her hands balling into fists. She was obviously seething.

“Is the horse being raped because it’s a vagina and not a hand? Or is it the human male penis that you find so distasteful? Regardless,” he held up his hands and raised his voice before she could interrupt, “the point of this discussion isn’t whether bestiality is appropriate or disgusting. The point I am attempting to make, and obviously quite clumsily, is that it is not possible to
give
offense if there is not a party to
take
offense.”

“That is so wrong-”

“No. It is so right!”

I glanced up, surprised by the sudden vehemence in Greg’s voice, and found him frowning. All of his earlier amusement replaced with a fierceness I couldn’t quite reconcile with his horrid joking. The room fell completely silent. The only noise was the slight sound of water from the faucet.

He was gritting his teeth. “You think of bunny rabbits being butchered for fur coats and sheep farmers taking their pleasure from livestock, but you think nothing of actual atrocities, genocide, hundreds of thousands of people murdered or left to starve or forgotten. This country raises millions—if not billions—of dollars for cuddly cats and dogs, yet we do nothing to ease the suffering of and subjugation of those in third world countries. You think bestiality is offensive? I find you and your defective priorities offensive. You
give
me offense because I am inclined to
take
it.”

Simone stared at him as though he’d slapped her. It was a terrible moment. On one hand, he was right. But he was also very, very wrong. For these impressionable minds that had gathered in the kitchen, it was a life-altering moment, and something within me demanded that I speak up, challenge him before these young people left this room feeling like efforts toward righting wrongs—all wrongs—were futile.

“You are correct,” I said, turning off the faucet, ignoring how my heart leapt to my throat.

Greg’s eyes cut to me. He was scowling. “Of course I’m correct-”

“You are also incorrect.”

His forehead wrinkled, plain surprise flickering over then arresting his expression. My heart was thudding in my chest, and my ears were ringing because he was intimidating. But I’d long ago learned how to surmount intimidation and fear. His cold regard frightened me, but I was more brave than he was scary.

“Really,” he drawled, his eyes narrowing, his mouth curving in a slight smirk. “I am so very interested in learning of my deficiencies.”

“That’s a lie,” I said plainly, wiping off my hands with a towel. “But, as sarcasm is an effective technique when debating, I’ll allow it.”

“You’ll allow it.” He stated, his voice impassive, monotone.

“Yes, I will. Even though sarcasm is beneath you. But I digress, as your lack of sincerity isn’t the point.”

“Then what is your point?”

“I agree. Without someone to take offense, one cannot give offense. That stated, values are important. Ethics are important. Morality, holding truths sacred, is important.”

“Ah, but whose truths do we hold sacred?”

I shook my head and smiled at him, seeing that he was attempting to lead me down the same path he’d just led Simone. “No, no, no. That way leads to ruin and red herrings.”

  His eyes lost some of their cold edge, and his lips twisted to the side fighting a reluctant smile.

“The point I debate is not whose truths or ideology are superior. The point I debate is that each of us needs an ideology. We all need something to fight for, to believe in, to hold sacred. Simone-” I motioned to her with my hand, “is an animal-rights activist. No one should be belittling her good work, because she is doing good work.”

His smirk fell away, and he stared at me, assessing. He opened his mouth to speak, and I held up my hands to stop him.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Well, maybe not the precise words, but you’re going to say something sarcastic, cutting; perhaps it’ll be witty or even
funny
. I challenge you to answer my next question without sarcasm.”

His gaze narrowed again.

One of the boys chimed in, “I don’t think Greg can go more than a minute without sarcasm. It might kill him.”

A few people laughed. I kept my eyes on Greg. He wasn’t smiling.

“Fine. What’s the question?”

“Do you hold anything sacred?”

He paused, maybe searching his mind to determine if I’d asked a trick question; finally, he nodded once. “Of course.”

“What good work do you do? How do you fight for what you hold sacred?”

Greg blinked at me as if he were startled by the question. Then, all at once, his gaze turned thunderous.

I almost took a step back, but I didn’t. I held my ground. “You give
me
offense, and I take it. I take offense to the fact that you would stand here and belittle Simone’s beliefs and her work to correct what she feels are grave wrongs when you take no action to fight for your beliefs. It is one thing to compare or even belittle sacred truths when both parties are working toward rectifying wrongs. But it is quite another to rail against a person who is doing something when you do nothing.”

Greg’s eyes flashed, and, though I didn’t know him very well, I sensed he was very close to losing his temper. I braced myself, waited for the storm. I was good at this. My mother was a screamer. She communicated via threats and intimidation, all shouted at maximum volume.

But his anger didn’t come.

He closed his eyes, his chin falling to his chest for maybe three seconds, and when he lifted his head his gaze was cool, calm, collected.

“I cede the point,” he said evenly, almost cheerfully, giving me a half smile that did not reach his eyes. “You are, of course, right. What good are convictions if you don’t fight for them? They’re nothing.”

I gave him a sideways glare, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the acerbic remark.

He continued, “I acknowledge the superiority of your argument and would like to offer you the services of my horse in recompense, if you feel inclined to…take or give a ride.”

Ah…there it is.

Of course, several people laughed. Simone bristled.

I shrugged, tossing my thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll have to take a rain check as I have dishes to do.”

  “Perhaps after?”

“No, thanks.” I walked back to the sink. “Afterwards I need to give my fish a bath.”

A number of students chuckled or smirked, and I was relieved when new conversations were initiated within the group, a few people wondering out loud if anyone was up for playing Mario Kart. Obviously they’d tired of the ethics debate.

Meanwhile I turned my attention back to my dishes and found that my hands were shaking, just a very little but enough that I noticed. I finished the dishes in record time, feeling Greg’s gaze on me but not inclined to meet it. I wiped the area around the sink and decided to dry my dishes in my room rather than loiter in the kitchen any longer.

My pace was quicker than I liked as I exited the room, but I forced myself to slow to a stroll when I reached the hall. I had no reason to run away…or so I told myself.

“Fiona.”

I tensed, my steps faltering then halting at the sound of my name in Greg’s accent. I turned, giving
Greg
my profile, then glanced over my shoulder. He was striding purposefully toward me. His jaw was set, his gaze half-lidded; as he drew closer I saw the muscle at his temple tick.

I gave him the best friendly and interested expression I could muster. “Hey…Greg.”

He stopped; his eyes, guarded and measured, flickered over me then rested on the tub of clean dishes I was holding. “Let me carry these back for you.”

Without waiting for me to acquiesce, he took the tub from my grip and preceded me down the hall toward my room. Then he entered my suite. I was several paces behind and was surprised that he knew which door was mine.

I found him hovering just inside the entrance, his gaze moving over Fern’s books and papers, Beth’s vacant space, then Dara's desk and mine. He set the tub down on what used to be Beth’s empty stretch of table then turned to face me. His jaw was still tight, his generous lips a stiff line.

I was struck with the notion that he was tormented, that something plagued him. I didn’t know how to address it; I didn’t know if I should.

Therefore I offered, “Do you, uh…do you want something to drink?”

He blurted, “You’re wrong about me.”

I lifted my right eyebrow in surprise and waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I asked the obvious question, “How am I wrong about you?”

“I’ve fought for my beliefs; I’ve fought for them most of my life. But the fight yields nothing. What you did, what you said to those kids-”

“Kids?” I asked, incredulous, interrupting him. If the assorted upper classmen arranged in the kitchen were kids, then I was an infant.

He ignored me, and as he spoke his voice became increasingly dispassionate, “-I understand why you did it, but it’s a bandaid on a wound that festers. People fill their minds with trivial things because they cannot face horrible truths.”

I studied him and saw that he was agitated. Behind his droll mask and irreverent quips, I perceived a boy—no, a man—who was struggling. I had the overwhelming urge to ease his struggle. I started to lift my hands, then quickly balled them into fists at my sides. Comforting Greg was not my place.