“I left it in my car. I parked just across the street.”
“You parked on the street? In this neighborhood?” He made a sound of disbelief.
“Where do you live?”
“Tremont.”
I’d been to that neighborhood once. Old Polish restaurants, some new cafés. A park. Before I could think it through I blurted out—“Let’s go.”
“Now?” His eyebrow shot up. “To my place?”
“Yes.”
“Alright then.” He smiled. “We’re going.”
We waited for the attendant to bring his car from the lot. Andres asked where I lived; I explained I was up from Sawyer. He had been born and raised in Cleveland. His parents came to the US from Guatemala, landing in Queens but then moving to Ohio to join his mother’s cousin. “She married a white guy with a construction company, so they got my dad a job.” Andres had no plans to leave Cleveland. He liked his work, he liked his friends. He’dbought a house last year. “Why not be happy?” A million reasons, I thought. “And what do you do down in Sawyer?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“So cool. What grade? My sister teaches middle school.”
“I’m at the college.”
Andres whistled through his teeth.
“I could not handle if you were my professor. All your students must have crushes on you.”
I followed Andres in my car. We left the industrial neighborhood and entered neat, dense blocks of modest Victorians. He pulled into the driveway of one and I parked at the curb.
“Please excuse this mess,” he said, waving at the house. One side was blocked in small squares in different shades of blue. “I’m painting it myself. I started in September but couldn’t make up my mind, and then it got too cold. I don’t know what my problem is.” He laughed. We went in and he showed me around, explaining the process for refinishing the woodwork, the story of the kitchen tiles. He was doing everything himself.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said. And it really was.
“You’re gorgeous.” He laughed. “Sorry, I’m so cheesy.” He took my face and pulled it to his, kissing me, quick flicks of his tongue. I pulled back. “You alright?” he asked.
He had a lovely face, open eyes framed in a thick curtain of lashes, neat mustache cut to a perfect line.
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry. Let’s go to the bedroom.”
I followed him up the stairs. He undressed all at once, so I did the same. “So beautiful,” he kept repeating. “So handsome.” He asked me to fuck him.
“Maybe we can just keep it simple tonight?”
“Simple is great,” he said. “Whatever you want.”
He got down on his knees, cupping me in his hands, mouth all over me. I looked up at the ceiling and closed my eyes and felt the part of me in the room with him split from myself and separate, like a sheet of ice.
It was the first sex I’d had since Tyler, and I thought of nothing but Tyler on the drive home. Back inside, I went right for my computer. I had been good—no snooping at all. I had even deactivated my Facebook account to make it harder. I tried to reopen the account but my password wouldn’t work. I was prompted to reset it.
I opened my email to get the password link. There was an unread message, from a Gabrielle Lopez. The subject said,interested to talk?I couldn’t place the name but as I clicked open the message, I remembered—from NYU, she was some years ahead of me. There’d been a drinks thing when she defended her dissertation. She’d landed a job, somewhere in the south.
Hi Mark, this is Gabrielle. I hope you’re doing well! First of all, I want to say that I love your article from SAQ last year. I taught it in my Gothic Fictions seminar and the students went crazy for it. I hope you’re expanding this with a book!
I heard from Peter Fleiss (who says hello by the way) that you were looking to move schools. We’ve had a last-minute opening in my department for the fall (long story, a forced retirement of a colleague who’s been sexually harassing literally all of us for years, a battle to keep the line—the bureaucrats who run this place don’t want to put moneyinto anything except STEM and the business school, same story as everywhere). Anyway, we are looking for someone in contemporary American lit, with a preference for work in gender and sexuality—so, of course, you came to mind. Despite everything I just said, the department is lovely. We’ve done a bunch of new hires in the past few years, lots of smart and ambitious junior folks but no backstabbers. And I don’t know if you’ve spent time in New Orleans, but it’s magical. I cannot believe what we put up with in New York! I would love to talk. Our timeline for reviewing applications is tight because the search has been underway for a bit, and I’m sure you’re buried in your semester, but do let me know if the position sounds interesting to you. I sincerely hope it might.
Cheers,
