Vladimir(67)

how did it go Today?

Thumbs down

what happened?

Same shit. They went through my rec letters.

Ugh.

Wilomena is not good at cross

Ugh.

Costing us so much money.

Right.

I may just resign.

Now?

Soon. So much money to lose.

Is that okay?

Sid says she thinks I’m okay.

To resign

Yeah. She went through evidence.

No good case for civil suits.

I thought of Sid reading through a flirtatious text exchange, a testimonial of an intimate act— hello?

Was she okay with doing that?

Okay with what?

Looking through evidence

Fine Ok

She says they have no case.

Ok

Only in BS academia.

Yeah.

so How are you?

Fine

Where are you?

…

hello?

I’m fine

When are you coming home?

…

hello?

…

what happened?

…

hello?

Vladimir lifted my hair. His mouth was a centimeter away from the space behind my ear. He brought his mouth against it, less a kiss, more a light smear. He reached his hand between my legs, but I pulled it out. Then he took my hand and pulled it toward his lap. I let it rest there, lifelessly, as I felt him stir underneath. I felt petrified, and annoyed at myself. Could I be any more idiotic? For the first time in what felt like my life I was getting exactly what I wanted, what I had fantasized and dreamed about, and I was reacting like a frigid spinster. I tried to relax as he pressed my hand against him harder and moved his mouth up and down my neck. Despite the terror that my skin was emanating wafts of Roquefort and garlic, I softened a little and let myself feel him through his thin cotton pants. His mouth was soft and dry. He worked his way up to my ear, then whispered.

“Professor,” he said. “I didn’t hand in my final exam. Am I in trouble?”

I reeled. I thought about the phrase “turned off” and how apt it was to sexual situations, because that was what I felt immediately at his words—as though the switch that controlled my arousal had been flicked to the off position. I went cold, and nausea rose in the back of my throat. Feeling as removed from sensation as a corpse might, I moved my hand from his lap and rose from the couch.

“What?” he asked. He had a grin on his face, like we were still playing a game.

“Sorry,” I said. “I need some air.”

He smoothed down his front and crossed his legs. “Okay.” He laughed a little—half irritated, half self-conscious. He rubbed at his chin where a bit of stubble was beginning to grow and looked toward the wall opposite from where I stood.

The screen door was starting to come off its track and I made myself slowly lift and place it back into the groove so I didn’t have some sort of hectic reaction and tear it down. I neglected to turn on the porch light and fumbled my way toward a seat. Scuttling sounds came from a nearby bush—nighttime feeding activity or fighting or mating.

My body collapsed in the chair, heavy with depression and self-mockery. Naturally it followed that any desire that Vlad had for me (if he had any, and wasn’t simply acting out some inscrutable, self-destructive urge) belonged to a taxonomy that placed me in the category of pervy older-woman teacher and him in the category of a fresh-faced, innocent youth. I was a camp act for him. Some corny old fantasy from his adolescence.

And—this was the most embarrassing—I realized my fantasy had relied upon me being a sexy colleague, an attractive peer. I had imagined passion, something wordless and animal and back-brained. My feelings for Vladimir were beyond thought, and certainly beyond scenario. I had wanted him to allow me to forget who I was. I began to cry with disappointment, then laughed at myself for my tears. I had kidnapped him, essentially, I had drugged and deceived him, all because I wanted to satisfy my desire, and now I was finding fault with his perception of me. As if men who took advantage of women ever thought about how those women perceived them.

A tubby little raccoon waddled onto the porch. Its black doll-eyes stared at me. I held its gaze, wishing I could dissolve into a mammalian consciousness, abandon my thinking brain. The porch light clicked on and Vladimir appeared, holding my cigarettes. The raccoon, unhurried, toddled off the porch toward the forest. Vlad lit a cigarette, then tossed me the pack.

“Hey,” he said, with a soft pleading to his voice. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

I wanted to say that it was completely fine, that he had nothing to apologize for, but the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth.

“I misread the situation, I think,” he continued. He seemed actively concerned, and for a moment I considered what would happen if I decided to bring some departmental charges against him—suggesting he took advantage of me in a compromised state. Wouldn’t that be a funny twist to the story. He was so modern and trained he would probably bow his head, apologize, resign, and run away.

But also people would laugh at how ridiculous it was that this specimen of man with his conventionally attractive wife would make a pass at a postmenopausal creature such as myself. I would be a joke. I remember how cruel we were about Monica Lewinsky, who we mocked as unworthy of an affair with Bill Clinton, though when I look back at old photographs I realize she was voluptuous and strong-featured and beautiful. Still, he was the most powerful man in the world at that time, and we shook our heads at him for not at least giving his attention to a nineties-style model or a film star. It made him seem soft and desperate.