Her jaw unhinges when she kisses me again. I’m embarrassed for her. I’m hot but not that hot. I can feel eyes on me. I don’t want to be the girl making out on the dance floor so I break away and apologize but she definitely can’t hear me and I’m already moving away but her embarrassment follows me like a chem trail and I barely make it to the bathroom before I suffocate. It’s empty. The light’s red and the mirror’s covered in stickers, revealing just the arch of my eyebrow and collarbone. The door opens so I slip into a stall. It’s the girl and her friend. They start shit talking me.
“I bet she has a boyfriend,” says the friend. They both laugh. That almost makes me burst out of the stall.
The next day Comparative European History is a nothing. I keep hearing that girl and her friend laughing at my expense. Then George starts speaking and everything’s worse. But this hate brings me into the room, focused against whatever it is that keeps George going. He talks about cultures like numbers, as shaped by their ruling class. And academic journals eat it up. He’s too formal with me, too. Like looking me in the eyes will constitute sexual harassment. No, his intimacy is indulging in Nazi Humanity with a wife eleven years his junior. My opinion is not the Correct one, but I know it’s more valuable than his. Or at least I wish it was. I wish people like me got published. I make Shannon laugh hard when I describe George and maybe that’s enough.
Shannon’s still not around when I get home. She has some cohort dinner. I wonder if the girl from last night was a student. I’d feel worse if she wasn’t. Time for a walk.
I put on a hoodie and basketball shorts, and I wish I did bind my chest so I could be a fifteen-year-old boy for a sec in both fashion and spirit; Shannon would interrogate this gender dysphoria hard and I’d shrug it off and “yayayaaaa” until I found something interesting to change the subject, but I don’t know why she does this because I know she feels the same way. We don’t need to have the same conversation over and over which is why I tell myself I deflect: we’ll talk about safety and performance and our brothers and the patriarchy and internalized misogyny and just end up back at the conclusion we’re as equally a part of the system and feel shitty for it, so why not be the fifteen-year-old boi and kick back?
The grass is wet and reminds me of the slip n’ slide Epsa Delta Kai set up for homecoming my sophomore year. It’s cringey to think about me in those shorts and that top but at least there were always cute girls. Why couldn’t we all hang out solo? Why did the frats have control of the parties? Surely there are lezzy frats.
Shannon’s back when I return, and a little drunk.
“Oh fuck this bitch”
“No, like literally.”
“Like you weren’t feeling it?” She flips her hands out. “Not your problem.”
“Right. No need to project your insecurities.”
“I manifested this for you by the way.”
“You said I was going to get freaky!”
“No! I said you were going to meet a freak.”
“She was cute but her mouth was like annoyingly small, you know?”
“The chitlet kiss, uh huh.”
“We need more gay bars.”
We talk about a Savannah trip. Shannon’s cousin DJs around there and despite not being gay she has a gay following. I make her promise that if we go she makes out with at least two girls and not tell Connor. She promises but something passed between them on their last trip to his family’s cabin because I can feel that this promise is going to be relayed to Connor and that they’ll laugh about it in bed. He’ll think it’s hot she makes out with women. I’m tired and wish her goodnight. My room is fresh because I left the window open. They’ll move out of here together, and I’ll be stuck with the George’s. I play folk music. In the quiet mumbling there is sorrow but I only hear melody and strings.
Mom says I feel like a dying dog.
And I wish I was secretly in love with Shannon. It would be much easier to accept.
Shannon’s cleaning while I make breakfast. She reminds me to not leave the living room window open like I did last night. Although she would love to use her mace someday. I tell her if there’s an intruder the first thing I’m doing is jumping out the window and calling the police while running down the street.
“You’d leave me to die?!”
“He could have a gun. We’re not fighting him.”
“But what you don’t know is I have kale enhanced bones.” She does karate moves in the doorway. Her and the fucking kale. I scream. “Ok but doesn’t my ass look juicy?” She turns and drops a hand to the ground.
“Uh huh.” I smack her hard.
“OW! Rhea!”
“Out of my way, I’ve gotta get to class.”
I commit to the reading we’re discussing — no girl and her friend, no George. We’re examining the Black Death as critique. For survivors, there was more land and cheaper food. Of course this disproportionately helped surviving landowners and rulers, so I argue many of the systemic issues Post-Renaissance can be traced to underlying causes of the plague that were never fully addressed.
“But were these really issues if they led to the Age of Reason?” asks George. God.
“Same story. ‘Reason’ is the language of the powerful that supposes people are inherently selfish.” He makes me wish DEI was as bad as they say.
When I get home Shannon’s laying with Connor on the couch. I make a chickpea grain bowl and vent about class.
Connor’s face scrunches.
“What?” I say.
“You really hate this guy.”
“It’s not even him; it’s like all he represents.” I sit across from them.
“But isn’t the whole point to have a bunch of different perspectives on history?”
“I’m certainly offering more than George.”
“Ok I don’t care about George.”
“Really? Cause you seemed to a minute ago.”
“No, you’re just always bitching about him.”
“Nah I don’t like that.” I stand up and put my hands in the air. “Control your man,” I say to Shannon. If he keeps going it’ll get ugly.
On the walk after class I remember an ex that wouldn’t kiss me in front of people. I think of the girl in the club. It’s a shitty feeling.
When I get home Shannon isn’t around so I take off my pants and wander in front of the window, pretending I own the whole place, that it’s an estate outside my doors with a lawn and geese wandering around and there’s a creek I can leave my feet in every morning. Mountains in the distance and a café down the street where I meet my artist lover — she works with her hands on some cakey sculptures but teaches classes to make a living. The floor is warm under the sun and I can feel the whole house through my body, a seed in a bush swaying against the years.
When Shannon gets in she’s on the phone with Connor. Him defending George makes me not like him. He becomes less the guy we dance with and more the guy my friend smooshed me with. She’s got this blind spot for Connor: the part that unironically buys shorts from TikTok influencers; that sings too hard to Weezer…and it’s the parts I don’t like about Shannon. Her parents have money and it’s annoying to remember this is a little excursion for her. A pit stop before a curating job in her aunt’s museum.
We’re too lazy to cook or walk so we discuss takeout options. I can’t do Chinese. Shannon wants something filling. Calzones. Tonight will be calzones. She’s looking at me when we decide this.
“Ok, why don’t you order it?” I say.
“Cause you always place the order. I’m the Uber Eats Princess.”
“Doesn’t Connor have the premium version? Use his account.”
“I don’t have the password.”
“He should give it to us.”
“What is this? What’s this tone?”
“I just think he could contribute if he’s gonna be around so much.”
“Oh my god fine, I’ll order them.”
I get up and stretch. “Like does he think I’m so stupid I haven’t thought through George’s argument.”
Shannon screams into a pillow. I pick more.
“It’ll be here in twenty,” she says. She’s gone limp.
“Ok, I’m sorry,” I say.
“He’s a good guy, Rhea.” I know she means Connor but there’s a second I think George which causes me to tense. I lean against it. I ask her about her conference. Shannon’s a keynote speaker next month in Atlanta. She submitted a piece on Byzantine mosaics but wants to work in pagan fiber arts.
I only cry a little when I go to bed. I press a hand into my ribcage, feeling the division into my stomach.
Next class George announces he’s getting published again, but I’m numb. Maybe this is the groove I need to sit in. Because like this he seems indifferent to me, or maybe I’m indifferent to him and that was the real trouble.
Everyone’s going out after class to celebrate George. He’s buying the first round, so what the hell. Another person in our cohort talks to me about his research into early threshing methods on sailor livelihood. I get a few drinks deep, letting reality settle in my stomach. It’s a good way to be. There’s only three of us left: me, Professor Boller, and George. His wife left early to attend a lecture. I’m watching undergrads play darts when the professor leaves. George is staring at me from the other side of the booth. Something about him seems embarrassed. He starts telling me my writing is best in the department. Then that publications will always like work like his because it reminds them of what they are. I turn to him. He looks down and I can see his bald spot. There’s genuine shame in being published, being vindicated by such a system, he says. He’s on the way out and my research will actually be cited in thirty years. I thank him and don’t disagree. I can always get space from someone like him, but he’s stuck being George. It’s a strange kind of pity, a repulsive empathy.
“Are you seeing anyone right now?” He asks.
I mumble something about needing to get home. He flusters but agrees. There is wind in my face and I can’t tell how I get home because all I can think, washing over and over, is I was right!