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Damian
“This all started with The Moral Majority,” Melissa says.
“Religion has been in politics for much longer, but sure, that’s when Fundie’s were a lot more in your face about it,” I tell her. Melissa is a regular study partner of mine. Her interest is more on theology than occults, but often, our work aligns.
I’m not a big fan of working with others, but Melissa doesn’t take no easy. After trying to study with me a handful of times, all with me rejecting the idea, she finally found the way to my agreement. Bring me snacks. Preferably homemade.
Today, it’s lemon poppyseed muffins.
I let her keep hanging around because she’s a great baker and she understands that I’m not so talkative. Melissa is a mother; married and pregnant before she graduated with her BA. She took time off until her son started school. Then she came back. She told me once that she likes to work with me because I’m not a stuffy asshole, just a regular asshole.
“This part here,” she points to a page. “This is really good, Damian.”
She’s going over some of my dissertation notes. We’re at a table at the front of the library, against a wall of windows that give me a view of the café next door. I haven’t seen my new friend for a spell, and I miss her.
That night at Alexander’s was eye opening for me, to say the least. I’ve never been the type of guy to offer comfort to others. In return, people don’t seek it from me. Willa did, though. And I liked it more than I could have dreamed. She sought me out for emotional protection when she curled into my side and hid her face in my shoulder to cry for the women in the documentary. It’s a new role for me, one I don’t hate. Quite the opposite.
For the past few days, I’ve dreamed of what a relationship between the three of us could look like. I’ve known for a long time that Alexander is in love with Willa. He makes it evident with the revery in which he speaks about her. All it took was one hockey game with Willa to know the feelings are reciprocated.
Then there’s me. I know Alexander has feelings for me and vice versa. Every new conversation with Willa deepens my affection for her. I want them both.
I wonder if they feel the same.
My fantasies about it make me feel almost childish. But I can’t deny that I want to come home at the end of the day to a house with both in it. Where we could spend evenings cooking together and relaxing with stimulating conversations. My mother would never believe that I could have intellectual interest in an athlete, but she’d be very wrong. Alexander, especially for someone whose schooling was fragmented and often on the road, isn’t stupid. His perspective is refreshingly different than mine on nearly everything.
“This all looks great,” Melissa says. “You’re off to a good start.”
“Thanks, Mel. Only another hundred and fifty pages or so to go.”
“You’ll get there.” She stands and starts packing away her belongings. “You take the rest of the muffins, you’re too skinny.”
She tells me that all the time and it always makes me smile as the mom in her peeks its head out to say hello.
“Thank you. See you later, Melissa.”
Just as she leaves, Willa enters the café with a couple of other women. Not wanting to crash her party right away, I work on my laptop for a while longer. This is another noticeable thing that’s changed since Alexander and Willa entered my life. My selfishness is much decreased. Setting aside my own wants and desires for someone else’s benefit isn’t how I was raised. I no longer feel like I’m the star of the show, I’d rather be a background player in theirs. A supporting act, ready to prop them up or catch their fall if ever they need either.
Maybe it’s age, or that I’m nearly done with nine years of schooling, but my goals are shifting. I can’t help but believe that they play a role in that.
I get a few thousand words written, then call it a day. When I walk into the coffee shop, I don’t have to scan the space to find Willa. I hear her immediately.
“I’m just saying women have the same rights as men,” some guy says to her.
“That’s because you’re only looking at it from the point of view of rights,” she’s saying to the guy who looks like he was pulled right out of a fraternity catalog. “I’m not that close-minded on the subject. Until being a woman is as easy as being a man, I’ll be here arguing with assholes like you.”
“How is it easier to be a man,” he argues.
“In nearly every way. Skipping over obvious things like the ability to make medical decisions with a doctor instead of the state, there are examples in everyday life. You’d probably call a woman a whore if she slept around, but you’d high-five your buddy for the same behavior. Men want men’s clubs and ‘man caves’ in their homes, but if a woman wants a space free of men, she must be a man-hating feminist lesbian. Men can have leg and armpit hair, and no one bats a pretty eyelash, whereas a woman doesn’t shave and she’s unhygienic. A woman with a family is considered a liability by employers, but a ‘family man’ is looked upon favorably,” she rattles off her points quickly and directly. “Not to mention the thousands of other ways. Your willful ignorance on the subject is just that, Chad.”
“You know my names Derek, Willa.”
“Same thing,” she dismisses him with a wave, and he walks away in a huff.
“Well done, Ms. Cole,” I say, stepping up behind her and getting a whiff of whatever sweet-scented shampoo she uses.
“That guy lives to come in here and push our buttons.” She looks over her shoulder at me and winks. “Emma, Jennifer, this is Damian.”
“Nice to meet you,” they both say in unison.
