Only glimpses of Esmeralda these last few days. She pokes her head around corners and otherwise turtles into her room. It’s a bit maddening. Not only because I’m fascinated by her, but also because she’s got my book. That Yeats is a first edition. I’m sure she’s not staining the pages with coffee or tears, or underlining phrases from “Ego Dominus Tuus” to mark out some esoteric code of grief, as I sometimes imagine she’s doing. But still.
I haven’t been in a relationship since before I began my master’s degree, and I entered that one already knowing it was going to end. I was in Toronto living in a bachelor suite looking out onto a mangy hedge, with the CN Tower just visible if I leaned far enough over; the people above me hung their clothes on a line and they constantly blew off and onto my balcony. I’d finished my BA and Maggie asked me if I was coming home for the summer. I said no. I’d found a job working at the Engineering library on King’s College Road—not my choice; all the library applications were bunched up and mine was selected at random. I’d also received a scholarship that would see me through my master’s. I’d no reason or desire to go home.
While working at the library I met a girl named Sofia. Like me, she was an arts student stuck in the pedantry of engineering. She’d come to Toronto from Portugal to do her BA in art history and was planning on going back to Lisbon to continue her education. She’d be gone by August.
Since high school I’ve always been wary of women and their potential influence on me. Perhaps I’ve Maggie to thank for that. I try to establish my assertiveness from the get-go. I’d had brief closeted jounces during my undergrad, mostly with girls who envied my aggression. I kept them at arm’s length. Sofia was different. Hard yet patient. To test her, I told her about the time when, during a question and answer period the previous year, I’d embarrassed Margaret Atwood so much that she stared at me murderously and asked security to escort me out. Sofia laughed and said, Atwood just kicks up a lot of dust. You want a writer, read Saramago. His sentences blush.
We traipsed through the summer together, poking fun at the engineering students’ vests and mocking the theses of a hydraulics text. She tolerated my cynicism admirably. My brothers are soldiers, she said. You can’t get more cynical than them. When we had sex both my body and my synapses exhaled. We grappled and gripped each other. I hugged her generous hips. She grabbed me and pulled me further inward. The tension completely drained from my neck and shoulders.
I think one of the reasons I felt so much at ease, besides Sofia’s sly charm and pugnacious intelligence, was that I knew she was leaving in August. The temporariness of the situation meant I didn’t have to worry about consequences. But she ended up mistaking my nonchalance for a carefree disposition. When it came down to our last day together in the library, we finished our shift and held hands as we walked to the exit. I held the keys in my hand. We faced each other. She bowed her head. Do you wanna stay in touch, then? she said. Mm, I said. I don’t know if it’ll be worth it. Oh. I mean, I enjoyed this. Me too. But, for me I don’t think we’re gonna see each other again, so I don’t know if it’ll be worth it. She scowled. I knew you were gonna say that, too, she said. Are you mad? No, I’m not mad. You look mad. Well. What’s the point, Sofia? I really like you, she said. I don’t love you, but I really like you, and I know I have to go back but I just want to make sure you feel something too. Well yeah, I do. How could I not? You hate Atwood almost as much as I do. She chuckled. Do you wish I wouldn’t go? she said. It’s hard, I said. Your school’s already paid for. Your family’s expecting you back. Answer my question, she said. I can go either way, I said. Whichever one. Sofia sighed. I knew it, she said. What? I said. She shook her head and walked away.
Haven’t been in a relationship since then. Haven’t had sex in five years.
I don’t even know if I want a relationship right now. When I look at my colleagues and their relationships, they seem content enough, but I always hear talk of If I wasn’t married I’d be getting a lot more done, or The kids are a handful, we have to make a few sacrifices, you know how it goes. These phrases are spoken with flat resignation. Not quite regret, but a few degrees away. For this reason a number of my colleagues envy me. It’s plain in their words and expressions. I’m able to wholly devote myself to my work, and in the process become eminent. As a result, I’ve nothing to regret.