“You never said anything like that to me,” I said, pinching him.
“With you I just think it. All the time. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is how much I like your smile, the sound of your voice, the smell of your skin, your contradictions, your craziness. It just emerges involuntarily.”
I scowled at him.
“You think I’m crazy?” I asked.
“Crazy about me!”
“Dear Lord, you’re just as bad as I am.”
Looking like a mischievous child about to play a prank, he whispered, “You bet I am,” and leaned in close. “I’m crazy, too. Crazy about touching you, about kissing you all over, about fucking you. I think about that all the time, too.”
I blushed. I wasn’t used to a man talking dirty, and it lit a fire inside me.
I realized something then, as his stare burned into me: I was still free. Freedom had followed me here. It lived inside me. And I understood something else, the meaning of a word I had never really grasped before then. Home.
Home isn’t a place, it’s the person or people who love you.
That night, at that moment, home was that tree we were hiding under.
And later, it was my bed, our kisses, the wild, ferocious fire between us.
Flames, lust, impatience, possession.
Primitive, instinctive sex.
And afterward, his arms were my home as I fell asleep, exhausted. His breath on my neck. The calm after the storm.
My home was him.
As long as it lasted.
The next day, I went to Toronto.
Leaving the airport, I watched through the window of the taxi as we headed toward my apartment in the Annex, a student neighborhood near the university. I thought and thought, went over each and every step I had to take. First I’d go to school and talk with my advisor. I knew dropping out would disappoint him, but I was sure of my choice, and that was enough for me. I didn’t need a bunch of extra letters coming after my name to make myself feel special.
Then I’d go to the publisher to announce my departure. I’d hand in the revisions that were due and close that stage of my life with a smile.
When I entered the apartment, I was pleased to find it just as I had left it.
I picked up the letters my landlady had been sliding under the door and took a glance at them. There was nothing interesting apart from an invitation to a poetry reading at the White Rabbit, a bohemian café. And that had already taken place the Friday before.
I threw my suitcase on the bed and called the moving company I’d hired to confirm what time they’d be coming to pick up my things.
Then I went outside and caught the streetcar down Bloor Street to campus. There were students all over, walking, reading on the grass, laughing, conversing. I watched them, thinking how I’d never been like them; I was the type who was always in the library studying. If I made a list of the people I’d talked to with any regularity in Toronto, I doubted I could come up with more than a handful.
A part of me regretted not trying harder. Not looking for friends, not going out more. I wished I’d done that instead of spending four years working my fingers to the bone to show myself I could do something—something I could hardly even remember the point of anymore.
I entered the imposing Jackman Building, with its fake marble pillars, and headed to Professor Cook’s office. When he saw me come in, he smiled, took off his glasses, and laid them on his desk, watching me sit down.
“Let me guess: I’m not going to like it, right?”
I shook my head and shrugged, already apologetic.
“I think I could use a coffee and a sandwich to help me absorb the blow. Are you hungry?”
“Honestly, yes.”
