Still in Love by Michael Downing

Author:Michael Downing
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781640091481
Publisher: Counterpoint
Published: 2018-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

3.

It began to snow as Mark packed up his bag, big lazy flakes that smashed into the windows like hopeful, heedless moths. As he headed outside, he recognized the white headband and braids of the young woman sheltering under an eave of the Arts Building. Vanessa? Eleanor? The prospect of one more conversation was unappealing enough to make him back up and wait her out in the dark classroom, but as he hesitated, she turned and entered the building, her phone pressed to her cheek, and didn’t acknowledge him. The snow made him mindful of Anton’s coat crumpled up on his office floor, so he veered off toward Hum Hall.

It must have been after five because the front door was locked, and the windows of all but one of the departmental offices were dark. It was unclear what he might do with the puffy red coat if he retrieved it now. It was painfully clear that he’d have to climb up three flights of stairs to arrive at a decision that would probably leave him in possession of a winter coat Anton didn’t want, would promise to take from Mark on Monday, and then leave in the classroom.

Mark was confident he knew Anton well enough to know he didn’t want that coat. And there was a lot of snow in the air, and more on the way, and that NEPCAJE panel in Amherst on the horizon this weekend, so Mark made a beeline for the garage. The Saab wasn’t happy to see him and balked the first few times Mark twisted the key in the ignition, but it finally relented. At the end of the exit ramp, a gust of wind greeted him. The snow was blinding now. He decided not to drive to Ipswich, which would make for a longer drive to Amherst on Saturday. Plus, he had several pork tenderloins at Paul’s place. And he didn’t need to stare at that abandoned novel on his desk to know what he wasn’t doing with his spare time for the next few days.

Maybe it was kindness, maybe it was pity, maybe it was guilt—it was hard to name the principal currency of most transactions with students—but instead of heading directly to Cambridge, halfway down the hill Mark made a quick U-Turn toward Hum Hall and parked behind the back of the building, next to the only other car in the spaces reserved for office staff and administrators. He turned off the Saab, and as he braced himself for the climb up to his office to retrieve Anton’s car coat, one of the young English Department assistant-somethings rushed out through the back door. Sybil? Cheryl?

She stopped and opened an umbrella. “Mark! Go home already. It’s nasty out here.”

“A student left something in my office.”

“Shaved head? Yellow sweater?”

“Anton,” Mark said.

“He came by about fifteen minutes ago to claim it.”

“He did?” Even to Mark, the question sounded more accusatory than curious.

She raised her umbrella up an extra foot or so, to let Mark see the concern on her face.

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