Love actually
I had an assignment to write a story about this guest lecturer whom was an applicant for an open position in our department. She came and spoke to our class last week. Instead of doing the obvious I went in a bit different a direction.
She stepped into the room as if its floor was paved with eggshells. The neutral colour of her taupe suit left her entrance unnoticed by most of the students in the room. Indeed, she was so unremarkable that few recognized the fine tailoring of her pantsuit or her fabulous shoes. Her tenure before them would be brief, and it was imperative she make a good impression.
Giggling nervously, she arranged her materials on the small table, the bulk of space being taken up by the intrusive overhead projector. A laugh erupted and her eyes squinted thin as though she was onstage. In a way, she was.
A coffee cup steadied her shaking hands as her eyes shot quickly around the room, afraid or unable to maintain contact for more than a brief moment.
Until the eyes landed upon mine, where they lingered for just an instant longer than they had others. My right brow lifted provocatively.
She began her lecture with an unsteady voice revealing years of attempts to mask an accent I couldn’t identify. Austrian? German? Her high cheekbones made her look Swiss, to me, but what did I know. Clumsily, she fumbled through the organization of her lecture, eyes coming to mine every so often, with a fire of anxious tension relieved with every occurrence.
She spoke of the futility of anti-drug campaigns, drawing me further into inquisitiveness with each pronunciation of “smoking Mary-ahna.” Her pupils dilated with what I thought was anxiety but hoped was passion, masking her pale brown iris.
She distributed handouts, happily anticipating fewer staring eyes to accommodate. She attempted to demonstrate her ideas upon the overhead projector, but her transparencies were unruly, creating disorder and launching themselves from the projector’s face. She asked for questions, as she played with her wedding band to relieve the unease.
I raised my hand to inquire about some frivolity unearthed by her brief lecture. She answered it excitedly, happy to have an excuse to avoid the unfriendly eyes projected by the others in the room, and finding solace in mine. A professor behind me follows up with a brief rant, clearly identifying her frustration with the health services industry.
The lecturer thought briefly, and grasped her black halter top, as she had several times during the lecture, wary of revealing even the slightest bit of cleavage to her audience. She stopped midsentence, seeking the English word for the foreign concept weighing down the dock of her mind – then found it, and rose onto the balls of her feet to finish the statement. She smiled, squinted, and glanced back at me.
In the process of answering another question, she let slip her background – Italian! Well, that explained the fabulous shoes.
Her constant references to her physician husband meant little to the passion we were sharing. As our time together came to an end, she asked for any final questions, and the audience filed quickly out of the room. I had but one chance to speak to this woman, this queen for an hour.
I grabbed a pile of leftover handouts and approached her.
“Uh, did you want these back, you know, save trees, or whatever?”
“No, just throw them out. Thanks.” She finished piling her materials into her black attaché bag and, smaller than she had seemed during her lecture, attempted to leave – but was interrupted by a student with a quick question before she could reach the door that represented her emancipation.
Perhaps I’ll see her again. Perhaps she’ll be hired and become a face I see daily. However, the nature of our interaction and the fires that burned that afternoon can never be replicated. It was a private moment that happened in a public sphere. It was a love affair we weren’t even aware of. It was passion in a classroom.
