Behind the professor, up high and over the powdery green board, is a clock that has the unnerving habit of jerking from one minute dash to another. The student considers that void, the white space between the markers, and listens, cutting out the sounds of shuffling feet and coughs. Riveted to the clock, she counts off seconds – one Mississippi, two Mississippi – anticipating when another segment of time, swallowed up by eternity, will pass. Suddenly, she is struck by her own criminal boredom. What's the point of such wastefulness? She pulls her gaze away and blinks at the philosophy professor, a man thick around the middle with black-frame glasses. His lips are moving. "To understand Kant's Categorical Imperative . . ." And the sentence dissolves into jargon. Her mind segues to other profundities – What he's like in bed? And would his predilections complement her own?
He has the habit of striding across the room, talking to the air in front of him, flailing his arms on occasion. He's in his own world, the world of ethics and righteousness and dead men. He stops, faces the class and makes an emphatic point – "morality must be rational." She scribbles his words into a notebook for short-term future reference. The value of such obscure wisdom only lasts a semester when it can be regurgitated on an exam or paper then duly forgotten. She looks back up.
He adjusts his glasses, an idiosyncratic trait, then continues the path he has microscopically worn in the linoleum. She imagines the bridge of his nose is red and permanently marked from the constant rubbing of plastic against flesh.
"Universality must be applied in Kant's theory of ethics. Do as we do, not do as I do, if you will."
His words are meaningless, so removed from her own reality. Still, his passion for the topic is endearing. Passion in any form, she has decided, is admirable. Without it nothing would be invented or cured; no mountain climbed, no stone left unturned. Still, what drives passion may thwart other sensibilities. His pants have a sheen to them, as if he has worn them too long and regularly. His shoes are especially troubling. They are sneakers of no particular brand, most likely comprised of synthetic material that harbors foot odor caused by happily multiplying bacteria, perhaps spirilla, tailed and energetic. She'd rather not dwell on this. She listens.
"For your assignment, take any one of the Ten Commandments, apply Kant's Categorical Imperative and argue a case for validation. Any questions?"
He looks into the well of the class and, for the first time, his glance becomes personal. In the briefest of moments, they connect. Each other's face is somehow taken in by his and her optic nerves, flashed upside down, then inverted until each brain has an image. And, remarkably, with this image neurons cross the great divide and an explosion of sorts begins. Suddenly she feels heated. Pheromones are released and a corner is turned. His nakedness is imagined. Doughy, she suspects, and more jiggly than she's used to. Still, there may be some quirk, some odd trait that she'll be able to focus on, that will feed the pre-orgasmic state, the growing crescendo of heat and point of no return. But what? His smell, perhaps the hint of cologne, something lemony that soon evaporates as their hearts pound away, as their thrusts take on a life of their own.
He scans the class for any hands. None are being raised.
She then wonders – is he an open-eyed lover or does he prefer to keep his eyes closed? Mentally, she removes his glasses. Nothing is more naked than a person without their glasses. His eyebrows are bushy. That much she can tell. But are his eyes beady or a speckled hazel that changes color? Does it matter? She moves on. There's no telltale sign of any sexual organ, no slight bulge or thickness off to the side. Apparently, it's neatly tucked away, buried in layers of material that have been zipped and buttoned. Or maybe it's retracted and minuscule. Her gaze drops to his feet. Yes, maybe so. Still, there's hope. He may be the kind of man, who, realizing his limitations, tries harder, who understands nuance – the whisper, the squeeze, the spot both hidden and not. Intellectuals are like that, full of rampant curiosity and experimentation. There may be potential here.
"Very well," he says. "See you on Friday." And notebooks are slammed shut.
~~~
The professor lives in a rented room where, when he's not translating obscure Hegelian passages, he surfs websites for cheap DVDs that can be delivered in plain brown wrappers. Intermittent among errant pages of his dissertation are Girls Gone Wild, Volumes One through ad infinitum. Philosophy and sex are the two driving forces in his life and, he would argue, the entwining roots of any great historical movement. Case in point, take any war for instance, or the Age of Enlightenment. Who can deny or refute that the seminal cause of either is the respective enslavement (war) or freedom (invention) of sexuality and thought. And for this reason, he considers himself a total man, a manly man, who approaches life with both vigorous intellect and a staunch appetite for sex, with or without a partner.
The woman in the second row seems interested. He knows the signs – the unblinking stare, the subtle nod for him to continue. To test the waters, he walks to the window. If her eyes are still on him, there may be a budding opportunity to both explain Phenomenology and slap her rear, make her moan.
It is the beauty of his job – friendly banter with colleagues on the meaning of life during the day, sexual excursions in the evening hours with female students who want a story to tell when they return home for the holidays – a story, he is fairly certain, about a smoldering philosopher who rocks their world.
He turns, and yes, the young woman remains intrigued. Her note-taking has suddenly stopped and no matter where he steps, her eyes follow. He assesses.
She is not unattractive, although he prefers blondes, ones with cantaloupe breasts that pull at buttons and have trouble being contained; breasts that stay full and perky no matter what position she's in, breasts that respond to his every tweak and nibble. Unfortunately, however, this woman is seated, and of course, clothed. What lurks beneath the sweatshirt remains a mystery, but then mysteries are meant to be probed, savored, solved, and he is always up for the challenge. That is not to say there isn't a recurrent snag, a complication of ethics, specifically whether her charms can be averaged into her grade as extra credit. In the past, this has been an issue and he's felt rather used. So he plays by two explicit rules that must be mutually agreed upon before any bodily fluids are exchanged – neither party can be disparaging of a person's belief or weight. Everything else, including getting a D for the course, is fair game.
He doesn't know her name and would prefer not to, never to. There's something about anonymity that excites him, like in the videos. Few words are exchanged, some vulnerability is shown, and magically clothes come off. The move. He's tried many but finds one particularly successful assuming she lingers at the end of class and fumbles with her notebook. How coy some girls can be, and how so very predictable. The chase is such a curious blend of feigned advance and retreat, a dance, a cha cha cha. His motor is running.
~~~
At 10:50 a.m. in Baldy Hall on the university campus a collision is about to take place. Signals are misconstrued. Flashing lights are ignored. It can't be helped. It is the nature of magnetic fields.
"Hello," he says.
"Hi," she responds.
Linda A. Lavid lives in Buffalo, New York. She believes the world is unsafe and worries a lot. Watching hours of C-Span doesn't help. She has published two books of short fiction: Rented Rooms, Thirst, and a novel, Paloma. Visitors are welcomed at www.lindalavid.com.