Spring had broken. A pleasant, almost warm breeze, bright sun, blue sky; the scent of mud, of melting snow, water running, trickling down pines and across brown maples leaves and dripping to the ground. Grass was again visible in little patches where the sun had defeated the endless blanket of snow, and it poked up, miraculously still green, still fresh, as though just having awoken from a pleasant nap. Noah could hear the drip of water and sometimes the crash of snow falling from the trees. He could hear the rustling of branches. Somewhere, an eager bird called.
He was walking with his girlfriend Sarah. They were walking aimlessly, meandering along, and she was holding his hand. Her hand was smaller than his; this made him grin, it was like a poorly written novel, like some stupid book he had read. But her hand was smaller than his, a parcel of bones encased in velvet; squeezing, he felt the bones press together, side by side, hollow like a bird’s; he felt that if he pressed a little harder this delicate parcel would shatter.
They were walking along the edge of a farmer’s field. The field was empty, left fallow for some time, but around the edge a trail remained where once had driven tractors and side by sides, those little John Deere utility carts, and probably before those horses and still maybe horses and through all time people on foot. And now the two of them. Noah was walking quickly, he walked here often, he knew the trail like the back of his hand. Sarah struggled a little to keep up. Noah’s mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the warm pleasant air, of the coming warm weather, of the brooks flooded with meltwater, of the chirping birds. All of it was immensely pleasant. The images spun, they came up from the mud like the grass; he saw nothing around him, they walked in silence and the only thing that reminded him of reality was the little tug, when he accidentally began to walk too fast in his excitement, the little tug of her hand.
She said something and he smiled. They stepped around a wide, deep puddle, still holding hands, their images reflected in the muddy water with the bright blue of the sky. Soft ice cracked under their feet. In the distance Noah could see dark grey clouds, just visible above the tree line. They were far off yet, but he thought that soon they would reach the farmer’s field. You could smell a coming storm, the wind was heavy with it. But Noah was not yet worried. For now, the sun still shone, and so they kept walking.
They exited the field. The path continued on into the woods. The wind had picked up but the gusts were broken up by the trees. They swayed back and forth, the branches rustled, the sky seemed alive, vibrato. The trees shone midafternoon gold and the white birches and poplars reflected the light. Sarah smiled at him again. She pushed him up against a tree; he took her in his arms, both hands firmly around her waist, and they kissed. She looked him in the eyes, her hands around his neck grew limp, now her eyes closed; for a while they listened to the creaking of the trees, and he nestled his hands in the small of her back.
But then the storm rolled in. The pleasant breeze was replaced with one still biting and winter cold; it was early spring, still very early, and winter had not yet withdrawn. Rain began to fall, stinging rain, pellets, striking the face and hands; they pulled up their hoods, ran laughing along the trail, dodging potholes and puddles. Noah heard a shout; he looked back and she had slipped on a patch of mud and fallen. Her pants were covered in mud, but when he got to her and she looked up at him from the ground, her eyes were shining. She was reaching for his hand. Noah felt his chest swell and his throat ache; he thought suddenly that no one, no one but him could care for her. They ran all the way home and as much as possible still held hands, he leading the way through the narrow passages of trail, threading between trees, pulling her along. By the time they got inside the storm had truly begun, the sky darkened, the wind howled; they rushed into the warmth of the empty house.
They threw their coats wet with rain in a dripping heap in the entrance, kicked off their muddy boots. Noah walked into the living room and collapsed on the couch. Sarah flicked on the light and went into the kitchen. Already it was becoming like night with the clouds and the storm; the couch, with its back to the kitchen counter, faced into the dark of the living room. Sarah’s father, a professor at the university, was letting them stay in the family country house for the weekend. Her father called it “the cottage” but it was anything but: open living room with high ceilings, walls painted white and light blue, granite countertops, pleasant and modern in the light of day. Even now in the dark it was inviting, and the pattering rain on the black windows only made the atmosphere cozier.
Sarah was cutting vegetables. A pile of carrot peelings had carefully been deposited on a paper towel. From behind him Noah could hear her chopping, chop chop chop, on the cutting board. He stood up; she looked at him and frowned, “no no, stay there, really, I’d like to cook for you,” and waved her hand downward, and so he sat.
Soon the stir fry was underway and now from behind him he heard the pan sizzle. He could smell cooking and it made his stomach grumble. Noah disobeyed orders and sat at the counter, watching her; she went back and forth, from the maple cutting board then spinning to the pan, pushing the wooden spatula around; he smelled olive oil and mushrooms and onions and carrots; he watched her crack pepper from a bright red mill into the pan; she turned on the tap, and washed off the knife.
They sat together at the kitchen table as adults would and ate. It was delicious. Afterwards they watched Netflix. He had his arm around her and with his hand played absent mindedly with her long blonde hair. Periodically he looked away from the television and at the side profile of her face and even in the artificial white light she was beautiful, and he could not help but lean in and kiss her, her cheek, her neck. Soon their show was over; though it was still early they decided to go to bed. They made love for a long time.
When they were done, they lay in bed and Noah pressed his naked body to hers. The room was cold from the wind and the storm, she was cold, and he himself was like a furnace. He wrapped his arms around her; he would warm her up. She was made of paper and glue, like a kite, and he felt that if he squeezed too tightly she would crumple. And yet her body was like a force, a living, breathing wall which pressed into him equally as he pressed into her. With the lights dim and the storm outside shaking the whole of the house, Noah felt that he had to protect this small, fragile thing; that it was to him to take care of her, that no one else could do it. He alone was responsible. The wind slicked the window with rain, just barely visible in what limited moonlight broke the clouds, shining droplets running down the dark pane; and as she fell to sleep he repeated platitudes he barely believed, he stroked her hair, and in the howling of the wind and the soft touch of her own hand against his all the world was infinitely justified, and all was redeemed, and he loved her, then and there.
“It is so nice to have young people here, young students. It’s nice for an old guy like me,” said the professor, and he smiled and looked at each of his guests in turn. Noah did not feel young; he was already 23 and had recently graduated. But the professor still looked at them all kindly. He was a thin, bald man with wispy eyes. Before him was a casserole in a pyrex dish. In one hand he held a big kitchen knife and in the other a fork. He pointed the knife straight up while he talked.
They were seated in the dining room of the country house around a big wooden table. The air smelled like onions. It was thick with cooking, with the smell of ground beef and strong spices. The professor, Sarah’s father, had arrived at the country house just after lunch. Arthur, his son and Sarah’s brother, had arrived a little while later, his girlfriend in tow. Arthur’s girlfriend had been loudly bustling about in the kitchen all afternoon. She had made some sort of taco casserole, a great big dish filled with meat and cheese and peppers. Excitedly, she told them she had seen the recipe on TikTok.
She and Arthur had been dating for over a year now but it seemed like it had been much longer. Whenever Noah and Arthur talked, these days over Discord and video games, he referred to her as “my partner”. Sometimes Noah would hear a pet name over the mic – “honey, could you put the cheese in the fridge?” or “sweetheart, could you grab me the chips?” and it was hard not to make fun of his friend. They seemed at the ripe age of 23 like an old married couple. Arthur had been convinced a year ago that he would never have a serious girlfriend, during what they jokingly referred to as his “incel years”, and here he was, “honey” this and “baby” that. She was a chubby girl, with wide hips and a roundish face. Noah had been to her apartment with Arthur a handful of times, and it was always the same – dishes in the sink, bags of snacks, chips and crackers and nuts on the table, the smell of cooking in the air. Since she and Arthur had begun dating he had gained a little weight, and Noah’s once rake like friend now had a small gut. But the girlfriend let him play video games and was generally not a nuisance; and she made Arthur happy, so it was alright.
Arthur sat at the table next to his father and side by side their lanky frames matched like two books on a shelf. Noah thought they had the same soft eyes. When the professor began to struggle, Arthur took the casserole and cut it into pieces. He put the pieces on each plate and the professor spooned out sour cream and salsa. Before they had even finished the girlfriend stood up a little, reached across the table and took her plate. She was smiling greedily. For a brief moment it was as though she didn’t notice anyone else, so absorbed was she in her food; and then, looking around guiltily, she began handing out everyone’s plate, as though that was what she had always intended.
They started eating. The casserole was extremely rich, a big slab of meat and cheese covered in sour cream. “Oh, delicious, delicious, really good,” said the professor between bites. Arthur’s girlfriend beamed. For a while they ate in silence. The professor brought out wine. They all drank.
As time went on and drink went down the professors’ eyes became ever more earnest. They moved around the room, not staying anywhere long. It was clear he wanted to speak but didn’t know how to begin. At length he started talking, asking little questions about the lives of his guests, about the university they all attended and their classes. When they responded he smiled and encouraged them with little nods.
“It’s an exciting time for you people. I remember being your age. I remember your mother and I, when we first got together,” he said, looking at Arthur. “Moving in with her was so fun. We finally felt like real people, like adults. I met her in my last year of my undergrad, you know, and then we did our Masters together,” he said.
“Oh, shit,” said the girlfriend. She had dropped her fork. Sour cream splattered on the wooden floorboards.
The professor seemed not to notice. “Are you planning a Masters?” he asked, turning towards her. She talked while she cleaned. She wasn’t sure yet, she said. She had graduated with a community development degree. She explained that in her field, there were lots of avenues to explore. Certainly, a Masters wasn’t out of the question, but there were many other things she could become. She had thought about becoming a high school counselor; she wanted to help lost young people. “But I’m still not sure,” she finished, and she looked at Arthur.
“You’ll figure it out,” said the professor. “The wonderful thing about your age is that there’s so much runway it practically never ends. I say the same thing to all my students: follow whatever interests you. Follow your passion wherever it leads.” With this he smiled, folded his hands, and was quiet for a while. He looked out into the darkness of the living room, over the dinner table, at a vague point above the gas fireplace.
He was a professor of psychology. His specific research interest was neuropsych and cognitive psychology. He told them that he worked to map the function and structures of the brain to the psyche; he was interested in speech, in how speech was generated by the brain. He had papers published in major journals of cognitive science. On campus he ran a lab.
“There’s a lot to be said about the overlap of biology, psychology, and neuroscience. In your lifetime,” he said, pointing his fork at each in turn, “in your lifetime, not in mine, it’s possible that we’ll have an accurate map of the brain. Not a perfect map, but good enough. We will be able to identify neurocognitive processes with particular areas and structures, and then – that’s it, then. Treating all sorts of problems, mental illness, addiction, will become easier.” He reached for his wine glass and took a sip. The rim of the glass was red with drops of dried wine.
“And I might be one of five authors on a study that may serve as one citation of a hundred in a groundbreaking work,” he said, and he smiled ironically. “But that’s good enough for me. That’s what research is. I’m content with it. Small, small steps, digging in the dark, until something cracks open. Millions of papers pile up like a snowbank; then someday, a single flake might cause an avalanche.”
The wine bottle was empty. Sarah left and returned with a fresh bottle. Noah poured himself a glass, but it was cheap red wine, the kind you serve after the guests are drunk. His chest burned in an unpleasant way. Arthur’s girlfriend poured herself a glass, nearly to the rim; she had to steady the glass with both hands as it made its way to her lips. The professor had become a little red in the face with drink.
“That’s a tall glass!” he said to the girlfriend. She had managed to drink it down enough to be reasonably handled without spilling.
“I have my reasons. We’re celebrating,” she said, smiling slyly.
“Celebration!” the professor threw up his arms in mock excitement. “And what’s the occasion?”
“Well,” she said, glancing around, “Me and Arthur have just signed the lease for an apartment. Together.”
There was silence.
“An apartment? An apartment!” the professor said, his voice rising. This time he was genuinely excited. A smile broke out on his face. The table came alive; everyone began talking at once. “Congratulations!” said the professor, “I had no idea. Arthur, you didn’t say anything to me.”
“I sort of wanted it to be a surprise.” Arthur put his arm around his girlfriend as he spoke. “But yeah, we’re moving in.”
“When?”
“Next month.”
“Oh, you’re screwed now!” said the professor with glee, and everyone laughed. “I remember our first apartment, your mother and me. It was so fun. You learn a lot about a person living with them. I haven’t been able to get rid of her since.”
“Oh, he’s not getting rid of me!” said the girlfriend loudly. She spilled a little wine as she spoke but seemed not to notice. “He’s stuck with me now. Now we just need to find him a job and we’re all set.”
Arthur grinned and looked at his girlfriend. She was smiling widely.
“It’s such a nice place,” she said, “Such a nice place, especially for what we’ll be paying. Dishwasher, microwave, heat pump and everything.”
“Laundry included!” said Arthur. “Laundry included,” repeated the girlfriend, and the professor looked at them both with his soft eyes.
Having finished dinner, they moved into the living room and the professor lit the fireplace. The light was dim, the tall ceilings disappeared in the darkness and the room felt smaller than it was. Noah was too hot. The professor sat with one leg crossed over the other in a big, worn leather armchair, smiling the happy smile of one who has eaten and drank well. Noah sat with Arthur on one couch, and the two girls sat on the other. The girls talked conspiratorially, smiling and giggling. Every so often the quiet talk would erupt, and Arthur’s girlfriend would snort with laughter. The professor seemed mostly content to listen. His soft eyes, dimmed from drink, drifted contentedly over the room. The night outside in the country was pitch black, no moonlight shone, and the windows seemed like black walls.
“So that’s it, then,” said Noah.
“She got me, dude,” Arthur said in mock resignation.
“You’ve signed a lease. Locked down by contract. You may as well be married.”
Arthur grinned.
“A woman, a house, all I need is a job I hate, and I’ll already be middle aged.”
For a second Arthur seemed like himself again, but it didn’t last long.
“It’s the next step in our relationship,” he said, “Eventually you get to a certain point. Her rent was up, she was moving out anyway – I couldn’t live with mom and dad forever. So, fuck it, I thought, I’ll move out. I know that sounds pretty serious–”
“It really is a big step.” Noah lowered his voice. “Are you in love with her?”
“I think so. I think so. I’ve realized in the past year that I just needed someone to come home to, you know, someone to hold me at night. And it’s wonderful. I spend so much time at her apartment anyway it’s like we already live together. I walk in, the food is cooked, we have supper and watch a movie together, and we go to bed. It’s nice to be settled down. Maybe that’s what getting older is about.”
Noah snorted. “Look at Mr. Maturity over here.”
“I know, I know, it sounds corny. But I’m happy with her. I’m – content. And that’s what it’s about. Slowly but surely, you put together a life, by little steps. We have a really healthy relationship, a good relationship. Besides, I’m out of university, what opportunity do I have to meet other girls?” Arthur looked at his friend with soft eyes. “I’ve become content with my life.”
The drinking and talking continued into the night. There was a piano in the corner. When Arthur’s girlfriend asked if anyone played, the professor stirred.
“I used to. I haven’t played in a long time, but I used to when I was your age. Sometimes I play a bit in the summer, but it’s been a long time now.”
After a chorus of encouragement from the girls, the professor sat down at the piano. He began to play something classical sounding, minimalist. He stopped, smiled again ironically, said it was Chopin, something something in D flat major. Very fancy stuff, he said. They could tell despite the alcohol he was a little nervous. At first, he struck the notes lightly, as though unsure, but as the music continued, he picked up pace, striking the keys hard. There was emotion in his playing. Whatever remained of the conversation disappeared and all sat in rapt silence. The professor was playing now as though no one else were there. His thin body moved with energy, it shook and swayed, and his eyes became bright, alive. When the music reached its zenith, Noah felt his chest swell with feeling, and his throat ache, and he watched the professor who suddenly seemed to him a different man entirely.
The music ended. The professor looked back at them from the piano. He looked very old.
“Well, that’s enough for me, then. I’m going to bed.”
They congratulated him on his playing, and everyone stood up to go to bed. Noah wobbled a bit. It was hard to tell how drunk he was sitting down, but now standing the red wine went straight to his head. He walked up the stairs and Sarah followed. Both were too drunk for sex. The bed was unmade from the previous night and the sheets were stale. They stank of sweat. He pulled off his glasses, tried to find somewhere on the dusty bedside table to put them. He climbed under the covers with Sarah, who was already lying down. She looked at him with her big, beautiful eyes.
“I think I’m in love with you,” she said drunkenly. She fell asleep a few moments later.
Noah lay there, not quite awake but not dreaming either. The dark room smelled of stale sweat, and it was hot, too hot, and he had feverish, drunken thoughts and he could not sleep. All he could see was Arthur, in his new apartment, with its dishwasher and microwave and the laundry included, with the dishes in the sink, and bags of snacks on every table; he could see his friend gain more weight, spend his evenings sitting in a soft old couch with his girlfriend, his partner, hanging off his neck, her chubby, cherub face pressed into his chest, holding him there. Arthur would get a job he hated just as he had joked; he would come home each evening and they would eat rich meals and drink cheap red wine and make love and little by little Arthur and her would make their life. The girlfriends loud voice rang in his ears, mixing foully with the professor’s music: “oh, Arthur, honey… oh, Arthur, sweetheart…”
The next morning the entire house was hungover. The dining room was strewn with sticky wine glasses and plates covered in dried sour cream. No one stirred before 10am. When Noah awoke, Sarah was asleep, her hair dishevelled, her eyes dark. She was snoring quietly. It was still warm in the bedroom. He got up and opened the window to let in some fresh air. The countryside was enveloped in a heavy fog.
Gradually everyone appeared downstairs, dishevelled and hungover. Arthur’s girlfriend made everyone fried eggs with cheese. The professor looked at his guests across the table with the same kind eyes as before, but they seemed glazed over, unfocused.
Noah decided he needed to leave. His head was pounding, the fog was oppressive, he was too hungover to sit around and chat. He came up with an excuse, a nonexistent meeting he had to attend at the university. He went out onto the front porch and everyone followed him out. The fog hung thick, the air was heavy with moisture, there was no wind. On all sides it stood like an impenetrable wall, and there was barely any noise, the birds were quiet. Drizzle settled on his face and hair and soon his clothes were damp. On the porch Noah gave Sarah a hug. She looked at him expectantly; anxiously, he tried to come up with something to say, but when he looked into her naïve, trusting face, his pathetic romanticism disintegrated on his lips.
“A young couple…” said the professor, “It’s so nice to have young people around. We’ll see you again soon, Noah.”
Quickly, anxiously Noah walked off into the fog. Just once he looked back. The professor, Arthur, and the girlfriend all stood side by side, and the fog made them look like a single, formless blob; but Sarah stood a little apart, and shining out of her face like a lighthouse were those big bright eyes, still waiting, still hopeful. As soon as he met those eyes fear gripped him; he turned away.
And from the porch Sarah watched Noah go. As he walked away, each part of him seemed to merge into the dull gray of the fog, first his pants, then the dark blue of his coat, until he was nothing but a vague silhouette. Finally, the silhouette too faded into nothing, her eyes searched but couldn’t make anything out; she heard the noise of his car starting and she turned and went back inside.
To be so absorbed in such a placid tale on the internet speaks volumes YW. Beautiful, ty for writing