Vegetation

By Jackie Blackman

The room’s a mess.  She looks around.

I wish I was a man who didn’t care. 

Her eyes shift, drawn to the light.

I like the large window; at least there’s somewhere pleasant to rest the eye.
    

She looks back to the drab interior.
    

I like his left profile, not his right.  He drinks too much, hence, a few broken veins to the right of his nose.  Off putting?  Slightly – nobody’s perfect.  A man wouldn’t notice that, would he?  They see everything and nothing, all at once.
    

Again she wishes she were a man. 

Oh! I don’t care about this man.
    

There’s a familiar sequence to her thoughts. 

He describes himself as lucky, just lucky, he says.  Not lucky to have me.  No, he hasn’t said that yet.  I try to slow things down.  It’s May, the hopeful month; I’m warm, wrapped up in his huge dressing gown.  My feet slop around in man size slippers.  I’m loose today, floating.  The feel is not so friendly – his fur lining has worn thin.  He is not ungenerous.  ‘Men are fundamentally altruistic’, he tells me, ‘designed to please a woman.’  He knows the words all right.  I smile when he makes an effort.
    

Again her eyes shift, drawn to the light.

There’s a tree outside his window.  At least he owns a window with a tree outside.  I reckon over fifty years of growth in both of them – the tree and him that is.  Planted on his birthday?  It’s a magnolia, not just any old tree.  Is this his mother’s house?  She presides from the mantelpiece, embossed in silver.  I admire the sensitive face.  ‘Sympathique’, I say to him.  He doesn’t give the details.  He leaves me guessing: It’s her garden, planted with care.  I’m sure of this, but I don’t say.  It’s too soon for that.
The rest of the street is bare of greenery.  I like his little island.  Neither he nor his garden, are vacuous, I’ll give him that.  Just look at him contemplating.  This is ‘thinking man’.  He has a brain, he’s been recognised by more than me.  He’s a Professor.  White hair is scraped across his head – not suitable for touching.  My tone is cynical.  With good reason, I think.  Last night we shared his comfortable bed.  It was my suggestion – I wanted to know him.  A bedroom designed for love, or sex, or some other indescribable.  I can’t fathom him.  There were a few moments of potential.  He was enthusiastic – that’s something.  But the hands, a little too firm, and now I’m hurting.

His room is scattered with books, the coffee grows cold in the pot.

He sits with his feet resting on a green leather stool while I clutch my mug.  The hot milk cools and forms a tough outer skin.  I scrape it off with my forefinger and drink the coffee tepid.  Made to my specification – he’s quick to learn. 

Happy now?

I sit on his left – the better side.  He offers me a profile, nothing more . . .the books teach him nothing.   But then what do I know?

She leans across to lay her head on his lap.  His hand strokes her hair, automatic.
 

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She grasps the telephone and speaks a little too brightly.

‘I’m coming over for a lecture, I can bring your books back then.’
     I have abbreviated that conversation to one sentence.  There was more, but the essence is there.  I, the student, saw a notice posted, inviting free attendance to a lecture at his university.  Something about ‘writing the self’ – yes, that impossibility.  But it gave me an excuse to make contact again.  I have no idea why I needed that, but life was flat I suppose.  He had told me which floor to go to and where to find the seminar room.  Helpful really.  No one would have guessed – no bad feeling coming down the phone.  Except perhaps for the reference to the toothbrush.  ‘We can do a swap,’ he said.  He’s only human, I reminded myself.  ‘I thought you would have thrown it out by now,’ I declared light-heartedly and wondered why he hadn’t.  Lovers are hard to fathom, but I have said that already, haven’t I?

As usual she sits at the front of the room.

The woman giving the lecture is a Professor from Princeton.  Impressive?  Perhaps.  A Bloomsbury look-alike: frail from the drag of learning and privilege.  Her attire: a velvet frock, flat shoes, and a thin gold wedding band.  Her face: a wide mouth and big eyes, used to good effect.  I wonder who the husband is.  I envy her smooth delivery.  She seems to understand the inaccessibility of self.  I can’t make sense of it or her, but other hopefuls fill the room and scribble furiously.  ‘Self consciousness is no guarantee of self-knowledge’ she says.  Who am I too argue?  She mentions Kant, I know the name, but I’m so excited by my smattering of knowledge that I miss what she says about him.  I don’t bother to ask a question – I have nothing to parade. 

Not all academics are dowdy, I tell myself, only the serious ones.  I’m inventing a new persona – not so smart these days.  But I have made an effort for this.  I follow a jolly group en route to the arts block.  ‘What college are you from?’ they ask.  ‘The other one,’ I confess, ‘it’s not as beautiful as this.’
     His office is the next floor up; the directions are perfect.  He’s an easy man to find.  I had not been invited to his office before.  There was no need.  A post-it is stuck to the door, ‘2.40 – back in 5 minutes.’  I am tempted to leave his books at the door and run.  He deserves no more.   I don’t want the toothbrush back, an embarrassing reminder of failure.  Of whose I’m not so sure.
But no, I wait and read the notice board.  It keeps me semi-occupied, three or four minutes, pass.  I look to his door.  There it is, the same few strands of hair dragged across the crown.  How did I ever go for that?  I catch his eye. 

He makes for the door.

No welcome kiss.  No touching now.  There’s no purpose anymore.  We’re both conserving precious energy.  I’m faintly amused but hurting.
Thirty years of reading climb his walls.  ‘Obelisks’ – a speciality.   He ‘s told me that already.
     ‘This is wonderful,’ I say, ‘but smaller than I expected from your description.  I love the books.’

She moves her head towards the window.  He turns, but his gaze never reaches her. She speaks. 

‘Another window full of vegetation, aren’t you lucky.’

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Jackie Blackman lives in Dublin and her stories have been published in evergreenreview.com (Issue 109) and Phoenix Irish Short Stories 2003.