Imeros

weighed and measured for its significance, its beauty, or its folly. It can become exhausting for the non-poet to experience such semantic examinations.

  But, the truth is, Jacob believes in an elevated existence. He believes that a poet has to experience things bigger than everyone else. A poet's senses need to be open and more constantly aware than the average person's. And this heightened awareness is not a trait that everyone can attain. You either have it or you don't. And having it once doesn't mean that you'll keep it. Most don't keep it. Jacob hasn't. He'd forgotten it. But this feeling that some new, uncontrollable wave is cresting in his gut makes him remember.

  A person never knows when they will cross into this world of pure experience—what Plato referred to as the world of Forms—and we never know what the conduit might be, what will act as the passageway to this place. For Jacob, it was Gary's death that opened him up, let him see Joelle, and to really look at her.

  And now that he's found her, found the girl that will lead him back to the world of Forms, he hasn't the slightest intention of allowing anything, or anybody, to shut the door to that world.

  As this realization falls over him, he stands from the retaining wall and starts to walk home. But as he walks, he moves with deliberateness, feeling out every step, smelling the air, catching hints of the blooms that are preparing to pop on the trees, and he can see the buds—really see them. He examines their creases, their future folds hiding beneath the delicate flesh of a someday flower, the leafy cradle beneath the delicate womb of a future bloom that he hadn't appreciated before. He wants to touch the buds, know them before they stretch and pop. He wants to experience them as they drink the rain and imperceptibly stretch to look into the face of the sun. He wants to know them each individually before they brown and bend into a wither and fall.

  When he sees his house, he decides not to go inside, not to go in and climb the stairs to face the quiet isolation of his office. Why wouldn't he stay out and witness all the newnesses of spring? Why wouldn't he want to immerse himself in all the promise that is on the cusp of blooming around him?

  He climbs the stairs to his porch, and sits on the swing. The porch swing was one of the major selling points of the house when he and Rachael first bought it, but outside of a few disparate occasions, they've rarely used it. Today, though, it feels brand new. And he sits and swings and enjoys the sun that washes across the edge of the porch, swinging slowly from sunshine to shade.

  He sees Joelle walking up the hill toward her house, her face tilted toward an open book. He immediately wonders, again, what she's reading. He remembers her saying that she was reading Imeros right now, and he can't help but wonder if it is Imeros, and as she gets closer, and the cover becomes less obscured by distance, he can see that it is.

  His heart races just as it had when he saw her sitting in class earlier, and he thinks about what David said about trust, and he wonders again if he can trust himself around her—not just trusting his actions, but trusting his words. And looking at her now, walking in that short black skirt—her long, perfect legs moving in that confident, feminine stride—he knows he is something more than smitten. He wants her, and it takes just about every inch of his restraint not to surrender to the impulse and run across the street to get her attention, try to grab a few more minutes with her, find a way to collect some of her words, some sounds from her voice, some pictures that he might carry with him until he sees her again.

  But just as he feels as though he might resist the temptation, she looks over at his house, sees him looking at her, and waves to him. He waves back.

  Then, after a second where it's clear that she's considered, reconsidered, and then considered again, she turns and crosses the street toward him. He stands from the swing and moves to the edge of the porch to greet her.

  When he thinks of speaking, his mouth is dry, and his head is spinning, looking for what to say.

  "Sorry. Are you busy?" she asks.

  "No. Just enjoying the day. What's up?"

  "I don't know," she says, looking away, down the road, as if she were looking for someone, or just, like him, looking for words. "I know this might be personal, and I'll understand if you don't want to say, or if you tell me that it's none of my business, because, of course, it's not... any of my business."

  "What is it?"

  "I wanted to ask you today in class, and I guess I lost my nerve. I've been dying to know, but wasn't sure if it might be a sensitive subject, but I noticed that you dedicated Imeros..." she holds up the book, "...to Melissa. Is Melissa your wife?"

  "No, she's not."

  "I didn't think so. I guess I knew that from the tone. It was clear that something pretty great had ended, but I wasn't sure if there had been a reconciliation." She stops, and now she's blushing. She is clearly embarrassed, feeling like she's talking too much. "I'm sorry. It's just... She's someone from your past then?"

  "Definitely from the past."

  "Sorry. Of course she's from your past. That was a stupid thing to—"

  "It's alright."

  "Would you mind telling me about her some time?"

  "Really?"

  "Is that a strange thing to ask?" she says, looking concerned, wondering if she is pushing too hard, too soon.

  "No. Not at all," he says, and then realizes that under normal circumstances he would shudder at the thought of a student asking him about Melissa. "Well, it might be strange, but I don't mind. Besides, I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before."

  "Really? It's all I've been able to think about since I picked it up the first time. Every poem I read, I just keep thinking, who is this woman who made this man feel this way? It must've been a pretty incredible time for you."

  He sits on the steps of the porch. "It was incredible," he says, and when it looks like she's about to come and sit down beside him, he sees her look down the road again and her body language changes.

  Rachael is coming toward the house.

  "Rachael," Jacob says, standing up, and right away he is worried that his standing up was too abrupt and might have called attention to a situation that didn't need anymore attention called to it. "This is Joelle. She just moved in across the street. She's in my American Poetry class this quarter."

  "Hello, Joelle. It's nice to meet you," Rachael says, but it is clear that her voice is tight.

  Joelle nods at Rachael, but it's clear she's flustered and at a loss for words. "I should be going. I still have some stuff to unpack. I just wanted to come over and say hello."

  "OK, I'll see you tomorrow," Jacob says.

  "OK," she says as she walks back across the street.

  Rachael looks at Jacob, and he's not sure, but he thinks she is giving him a look that accuses without accusation.

  "What?" he asks.

  "Nothing," she says, and then walks up the steps and into the house without another word.

  Jacob turns back toward Joelle's house. She is standing by her door looking back at him. She smiles—a half-embarrassed smile—and then moves inside. He knows he's technically done nothing wrong, and that maybe he feels guilty because his thoughts—not his actions—have made him believe that he should feel guilty. But he is also sure that Rachael sensed that something was happening. And maybe something was apparent between he and Joelle, but, if so, it was clearly under the surface, and Rachael would be wrong to assume something other than polite conversation.

  He walks into the house and looks for Rachael in the living room. She's not there. He goes to the kitchen. Not there. He moves through every downstairs room. She's nowhere. He goes upstairs and sees her in their bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her satchel is sitting in her lap, and her face looks tired, sad.

  "Rachael? What's going on?"

  "It's not everyday that I come home to see my husband talking to some strange girl in front of our house."

  "Strange? She's our neighbor, and a student of mine."

  "And pretty. You forgot pretty."

  "So?"


  "Come on, Jacob," she says, and stands up, absently letting her satchel drop to the floor.

  "What? You don't think I see young, pretty girls everyday? You don't think I talk to those kinds of girls all the time?"

  "Sure you do. I know that. I've just never seen you do it on our front steps," she says and begins folding some clothes in the corner of the room, which is strange since the clothes are dirty and in no way in need of folding.

  "What's this really about?" he asks.

  "Ever since we had that talk the other day... You know, the one about you needing something to desire again. I've—"

  "Wait. I did say that, but even you were dismissive of our conversation that day. You were the one that told me that I was just reacting to Gary's death. Remember?"

  "That's what I thought at the time, but ever since then it's lingered. The words have stayed with me, followed me around. I can't forget what you said, or how you said it. And you've had the same dreamy look in your eyes ever since—that kind of absent stare, almost looking through me, beyond me, like you're looking for something else."

  "You're imagining things."

  "But it's true. You're not looking at me," she says, and turns around to look at him. "You used to look at me." Her eyes are wet with almost tears, and this kind of drama is very uncharacteristic of Rachael. He hasn't seen her cry in a long time. In general, she is not a cryer.

  "I'm looking at you now."

  "Not the way you were looking at her."

  "Rachael, that's