An Unnecessary Pain

He is so close. God, it's killing her. How can she bear to have him this close? Really, it was just an innocent happenstance that he had needed to talk to the girl sitting in the desk in front of her—something about the girl's grades slipping… But, Lord, he is so very close. She can smell him. The fan is blowing his cologne or aftershave or whatever it is right toward her, and in the dry overheated air the smell is absolute torture. Is it even legal to do this to another human being? A person can only take so much, you know. And when the one man who elicits such yearning in you is standing just two feet away…

Really, it's completely irrational. You know that—she knows that. And yet… She wants him. In the most basic and utterly human way, she wants him. Everything about him makes her tense. Why tense? Well, that's simple. You see, if she just relaxes there in her seat with him two goddamn feet away, how on Earth do you expect her to control herself? Her body's bound to give her away. She'll find some tiny excuse in the back of her mind to reach out—only for a moment, it won't hurt anyone—and brush her fingertips against the seam of his pant leg. Or, better yet, maybe she'll just call his name, turn his attention away from the ridiculous blonde in front of her and toward—

No. She won't. You know very well she won't. What would he think of her then, once she'd diverted his attention only to have nothing to say to him? He'd think to himself What a ridiculous girl—always distracting me for no reason. I don't know who she thinks she's kidding. And then, once the bitterness was there in his thoughts, she could never have him. It would be better if she didn't.

And so she sits here, tense in her hard little chair with its silly attached desk about the size of a dinner plate. God, who even invented these? How is a student supposed to balance her damn books on there anyway? Really, it's the most absurd design she's ever encountered. I can't believe someone like him could pick such a stupid—but now her mind's back on him again, and Lord is he beautiful. Especially in these clothes—he's wearing that outfit that just about makes her fall apart in her seat. You know, the one with the khaki pants and the pale blue shirt and necktie…

Would it really be so very bad if she spoke to him, just this once? It's so rare that he walks back to this part of this classroom. What are the odds that, in a class of three hundred fifty, he gets this close to her any time again in the next semester? Slim, very very slim. One in a million, no doubt. So, why not? What's the worst that could happen?

Oh, I know the worst that could happen. He'll finally get a good look at me and recognize me as the girl he saw outside his window that night. But, really, it's not as bad as it sounds. She'd only wanted a quick glance to see what he looked like outside of class. She had always wondered if he wore those same suits every day, even on Saturdays when he could fit some reading in before his six p.m. Intro to Modern Literature class started in the Atwood Building… No, she wasn't technically in that class, but she sometimes watched for a few minutes from the lawn outside while she pretended to study for exams… She hadn't really been spying on him that night, just checking on him. That's what friends do, isn't it? Check in on one another?

No, we're not technically friends. He did say 'hi' to me in the lunch line that one time, though. But that doesn't really mean that they're friends. Just that he's polite enough to say hello to her while they're waiting in the lunch line to pay for their wilted salads with Thousand Island dressing and dried out cheddar cheese. Technically, he's like that to everyone, even that bimbo he's talking to now. God, look at her—look at how she's looking at him! Look at her twirling her stupid stringy ponytail around like it's somehow going to make him fall madly in love with her. She has got some nerve. Doesn't she know what the word "professional" means? Doesn't she know what it looks like to the rest of the world? It looks like what it is—a bleach blonde bimbo lusting after her college professor.

Fine, she's thinking, let's just do it.

"Um, Professor? I have a quick question for you. It's about, um—" She pauses to conjure up some random question. What are they studying, anyway? Something about the use of tenses… "—tenses. I mean, yes, it's about tenses. Past, in particular." She's letting out a sigh, now. That was close—what if he had noticed that she didn't really have a question?

"What about the past tense, Miss Sanders?" Oh my God, he's looking right at me. How the hell am I supposed to conduct normal human conversation if he's LOOKING RIGHT AT ME? His eyes really are the most amazing color. They are practically the exact color of his shirt and tie, that perfect powdery blue… And now he's smiling. Doesn't he know what that does to people? How can he not see what it does to them? He must be the most perfect man in existence, really and truly.

"Um… You had said that the past tense is the one most commonly used in third person narration, is that right?" She swallows, trying to keep her voice steady when everything in her wants him.

"Not exactly. It is the most commonly used tense, yes, but as I said on Thursday, third person narratives can vary tremendously from author to author, and even from novel to novel within an author's works." He smiles understandingly, rather than condescendingly. She remembers now his discussion on the topic—he must have spent at least an hour on it. How could she have been so stupid to have forgotten?

"Oh, um, thanks. Yeah, I remember your lecture about it. It was, uh, really good." He's smiling again—can anyone's teeth be that perfect? —but he looks distracted. "Sorry, you can get back to talking with, um, ah—"

"—Jo Anne."

"Right, Jo Anne."

And he turns away from her again, but not before she sees his perfunctory smile fade.

Stupid, stupid! She walks away from the classroom as quickly as she can without attracting extra attention from her fellow students. Could I have made a bigger fool of myself? Now he'll think I'm as bad as that blonde airhead. She sits down on one of the stone benches outside of the campus's main library, despite the fact that it's still damp from the rain during the night. I mean, who cares if her butt gets a little wet, anyway? It's not like anyone's going to notice. And why not just sit here and get some studying in before lunch hour? She has about forty-five minutes before she should head back to the dorm to drop off her books.

Twenty-five minutes into her studying, though, he's there. He's just walking to his car, really—the 2004 Chevrolet Impala, silver with two stuffed beanie toys in the back window. But there's someone already standing there, waiting for him. No. It can't be. She must be his sister, his colleague, anyone… But you don't kiss your sister like that, do you? No, no, she has to be seeing this wrong. Wrong car, wrong girl, wrong life…

Before she realizes what she's doing, she's in her little beat-up sedan, driving toward downtown. This can't be happening, this can't be happening, this can not be happening. But no matter how many times she repeats it to herself, she can't get the image of him and the faceless woman out of her head. The way he smiled at the woman—he's never smiled at me like that. The tears are racing down her face before she even realizes that they are the reason for her blurred vision, but she manages to make it to her destination.

"Suicide Bridge," the locals call it. A cruel name for such a beautiful piece of architecture, but when an average of one point seven college students make the jump every year, one assumes that it is aptly named. Her tears have dried by the time she parks her car at the lookout stop. She doesn't bother to lock the doors—why would it matter? She can hear the open door alert beeping behind her as she walks along the pedestrian sidewalk of the bridge. It's a nice day, really. A nice time to disappear. But she's shivering in the early spring air and the wind snaps her hair around her face as she steps up to the edge.

Why? she thinks. Why him? Why me? She climbs over to the other side of the railing and cars have only just begun to stop, realizing that something is horribly wrong. She won't think of him, won't bring his name to mind, only his face, flushed with his enthusiasm and passion for teaching, his blue eyes radiant with energy. Her arms are breaking out in goosebumps now; she left her jacket in the car. Maybe… I'll bet it's warm in there—the heater's still running. But she doesn't turn around, doesn't walk back to her warm car with the jacket inside, doesn't drive back to the campus, doesn't realize that the man she saw wasn't the one that she thought he was but merely someone with a similar profile. No, she doesn't do any one of those things. If she had, she would have been caught by the arm by a young college student with brown hair and freckles who looks nothing like him, who would have shouted at her for being so astoundingly stupid, who would have told her then, on that bridge, that he's madly in love with her, and she would have wept with joy.

But she doesn't turn.