I sit staring at his quarter-full beer bottle. The label
bleeds with dew, and his fingerprints frost the glass. Cursed with a brain that
can never just let things be, I am trying to calculate the approximate volume
of the remaining liquid. I am furiously racking my brain for the mathematical
formula for ‘volume’ when he says,
“The rooftop of my building has a great view of the Empire
State Building. Want to come over?”
His words hit, and I notice his index finger tracing the rim
of the bottle. It manages a magnetic balance between nervous and sure. Witnessing
this balance pushes me to panic-grab the metallic backing of my earring as I
try to render myself still.
~
Two hours prior, I was grading papers in my classroom. One
of my legs bore a properly fitting knee high sock; the other rested on a chair,
knee high sock folded down to expose a large bruise on my shin. I was biting
the left earpiece of my glasses when my coworker (let’s call him ‘****’ for, you
know, some god damn privacy) walked through my door.
It all began innocently enough. He handed me a form to pass
along to one of my students. I thanked him and waved a farewell, absentmindedly
brushing the tip of my marker across my forehead. I checked the clock. 8:15 pm.
With sweet exhaustion and relief, I realized it was time to leave. I was
beginning to pack my things when I noticed **** still standing in my doorway.
After 6 months of teaching adults learners together, **** and I had become
friends. While he was a good 4 years older than me, we shared a sense of humor
and this just manageable awkwardness.
More than that, he was a good listener- the kind that compels you to believe you
are worth room in someone’s thoughts. Lingering in the doorframe, he asked if I
wanted to grab a drink. I breathed a heartfelt yes, putting no further thought
into my acceptance.
The words ‘come over’ are still resting on ****’s lips. I am frantically praying that my eyes do not reveal my whole shock, yet I can already feel my brow bend under growing perplex. Actually, let me motherfuckin’ contextualize this for you:
·
I am wearing two shades of purple that just do
not mesh (a fuchsia scarf tied taught around my neck and a maroon sweater from
2009). My floral skirt runs just below my knees, and because it was laundry
day, I am wearing my only clean pair of socks, which happen to be spotted with
black and white polka dots.
·
My hair is wrapped in a lazy ass bun. Please see
below for a quick diagram of said lazy ass bun’s positioning on my head:
·
My smudged glasses are crooked on my forehead,
pushed up as a low headband. And lest not forget about the marker streak that I
know is still up there somewhere.
**** is looking at me.
Okay, breathe, Aly. Breathe. This is fine. Don’t assume
anything. People get platonically asked to go admire the New York City skyline from
a rooftop all the time. RIGHT? RIG…. He puts his hand on my thigh.
11:01. I feel my teeth graze the sole of my bottom lip,
daring me to say something. Finally, I reply-
~
~
Two weeks have passed since our ‘accidental date’ (or, ‘AD’
for short). I am back in class, waving my hands as I attempt to explain
something. Just then, there is a knock on the door, and **** walks in. I have
only seen him once since our AD, but because I’m always super polished and
refined, I play it v cool with a brief hello. **** needs to speak to a student,
so I point him in the right direction and turn back to continue working with my
student Lisa. Now, quick profile on Lisa: (a) # of Snapchats sent per class: 31, (b) # of selfies taken with other students during class: 14, (c) # of pictures of Nikki Minaj she secretly
prints out during our classes in the computer lab: 4.
Lisa is my age, and I secretly would love to be her friend.
She is effortlessly egregious- charming in a way that is not pretentious. Her
wit always arrives with kindness. When I turn back to her, she is smirking at
me. She leans over to look past me, points between **** and me and says, with
eyebrows raised, “Teacher, I know what’s
going on here.” She then proceeds to wiggle her eyebrows even further.
I flush, deep red, and in the calmest tenor I can muster
say, “Go back to your gerunds.” Reluctantly, with playfulness still igniting
her irises, she takes another swig of her lollipop and begins writing. ****
leaves with a small wave before closing the door behind him. As soon as the
door closes, the back corner of my classroom erupts in chatter. I see a note
passed and everyone whips out their phones to text their WhatsApp group chat. I
go over. Just as I approach, my students nervously swipe the note away from the
desk. I can just make out my name at the top of the note. I ask, “Is everything
okay back here?”
I am met with whispering, then some “tell her, no you tell
her.” I wait, attempting a commanding teacher look but really only mustering a
half eyebrow raise and accompanying eye twitch. Finally, a student breaks. She
yells, “Teacher, that other teacher? He likes
you. Like, he liiiiiiiiiiikes you.”
There is no hope for a poker face here. I flare, full burns
amongst my cheeks. Everyone starts wooing “Teeeeacchhheerrrrr, oooooooo.” And, I
might have imagined it, but I swear I hear someone smack their lips.
What I should have
done: Ignored it. Re-focused on the lesson. Remembered your pedagogical
roots, Aly!!!
What I shamefully do: In
a noticeable crescendo, begin repeating, “He’s the computer teacher. He IS the
computer teachER” all while shaking my head in frantic embarrassment.
Eventually, amongst the seemingly uncontrollable oos and awws, I press my thumb and knuckle to the space between my eyebrows
and apply pressure as a calming force. Three deep breaths.
I am still pressing knuckle and thumb to forehead when I get
onto the B48 bus after class has ended. 8:46 pm. The air seems sturdier than my
body as I collapse into myself- exhausted, alone and huddled on the seat. I run
through my mistakes made and aches earned throughout the day; I try not to shudder.
When people ask me about my time spent in New York City, I worry
the first image I conjure will be all my time spent insulated by bus and train
walls. Or, in starker honesty, this usual huddled pose that comes at the end of
the long days in a city that seems to take everything from you, only to
begrudgingly give it back to you in unfamiliar pieces.
The bus takes a sharp right turn, and I double on the
momentum to push myself up in the seat. As the humor of my class’s events starts
to fade away, my mind begins to obsess. This time, instead of trying to locate
formulas for volume or flirtatious social cues, my mind spins underneath the
sudden wake of loneliness. The glamour of the city has faded. Even with the
newness of ‘accidental dates’, classroom antics and the vast change of scenery,
I realize old scars come to me here, too.
Three deep breaths, and I wonder if it is worse to be lonely
in the familiar or in the unfamiliar. Both have left me doubled over, hands
folded into my sides because I needed to find something soft. Both have come to
me in waves.
The bus turns to the left. Tired of this reality, I dream myself away from the B48 bus and
onto the Manhattan-bound Q, my favorite train in the city. The Q moves above
the East River, and I love the moment when the train emerges from the
underground tunnel onto the bridge. The daylight quickly circumvents darkness.
Even though I have ridden the Q many times, I still get giddy at the sights of
Manhattan from the train. I often stand up from my seat, and my hands graze the
subway door panels. I usually can’t help but experience relief. It is a sudden moment of joy.
In this big, broken, illustrious city, I wish I had the sort
of joy that’s constant, that forever warms my tender loneliness. But often, my
joy is guttural. It is unpredictable in seemingly small moments. It comes
without thought on the Manhattan-bound Q train as the train immerses us into
the daylight. Instantaneous and disruptive, it is not always the sort of joy
that wakes with me in the morning.
Instead, it arrives unmediated as a somewhat brutish-
‘thank fucking god’.
Over and over and over again, it comes-
and thank god.
The train runs forward. I balance on my tip toes-
and thank god.
In that sunlight-
and thank god
With hands pressed against subway glass-
and thank god
When I least want to believe it-
and thank god.
When I am most doubled over-
and thank god.
So that laughter can erase worry lines-
and thank god.
For city that may never be called ‘home’ but is still so something-
and thank god.
Sometimes, I can only muster the briefest, the shortest-
and
over and over and over, joy releases-
and
and
and
Palms on subway doors, I stand and let the sun wash me away.
I bite the left hinge of my lower lip. The warmth feels sturdier here. At the
close of the longest moment, I let myself hope-
maybe this will be the joy I wake up with in the morning.
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