Desire ...and for a moment I thought I loved her

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..and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires
— F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Fitzgerald quote kept running through my mind until I felt dizzy.

I was consumed with a passion for a student. It was inappropriate on so many levels that it shook me. I knew I needed to stop the reckless infatuation now.

And I was still trembling as I drove home in the rain—recalling the familiar warmth of her in my arms and the tenderness of gazing into her lovely face. I’ve held her so many times before.

But wait—how could that possibly be? I never set eyes on Karine until two months ago when she enrolled in my modern drama class. How could there be such a deep connection between us?

I felt I was going insane.

I had planned to head out to the cottage in the morning, but was too keyed up. I needed a long drive to calm me down.

I stopped by my place, threw my packed suitcases in the cab of my F150 pickup, and pointed the truck north, trying to put everything else out of my mind.

I’m putting this all behind me and enjoying my weekend, I firmly admonished myself.

Whether or not my resolve would hold remained to be seen.

I got out on Highway 400 and was soon gridlocked in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I turned on an FM station, thinking it would soothe my nerves.

The soft music from the Thirties worked for a while, at least until a Billie Holiday song came on, and I fell apart. The song was from 1934 and called, The Very Thought of You.

Fortunately, I was approaching a highway restaurant and able to pull off—and a good thing too, because my eyes were filled with tears.

The very thought of you
And I forget to do
Those little ordinary things
That everyone ought to do...

I can't keep doing this.

I force my mind to snap back into the present and stop ruminating on the girl, but I have to admit the song gives voice to everything that’s been lying dormant so long inside me.

I feel I’ve known Karine for an eternity, as if we’ve shared a life before. I've tried denying my attraction for her but the truth is I’ve enjoyed sparring with her and matching wits in verbal jousts—and looked forward to each class knowing I’d be near her.

It;s strange but I love even her negative attention because it's proof she's aware of me.

I shake my head, knowing it’s insane. I’m ten years older, and she’s a student, but still, I can’t deny my feelings—and what’s worse, at this moment I realize, she’s the girl in my dreams.

Great–just great!.

I go inside the restaurant and order coffee and end up staring morosely out the window at the splashing highway and the muffled noises of cars passing outside in the rain.

I had her for a moment. My body trembles at the memory of her in my arms.

I want her back in my embrace where she belongs, whether it’s right or wrong.

O God, I’m rhyming—a sure sign I’m in a state of pure emotion, but I can’t get her out of my mind.

I sigh and finish up, then force myself back out onto the road continuing the trek north until I finally arrive at the cottage at eleven. I light a fire and pour a huge glass of Shiraz.

Although I’m exhausted, I'm not sure if I can sleep–I'm still keyed up from the day. Outside, rain begins falling again and it helps me relax. But just as I’m drifting off to sleep, the FM station plays her song again and I’m back in the dream.

The following morning I feel tired and bruised, as if I’ve been beaten all over with a rubber hose. Regardless, I decide to push through my feelings and try to lose myself in hard physical labor.

I came up this weekend to do landscaping, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anything deter me.

I have to laugh bitterly. It's a nice pep talk, but I'm speaking to dead air and muttering to myself only underlines how much I'm losing my grip.

I drive to the nursery, pick up some evergreen trees and by the time I'm back at the cottage, the local landscaping depot has dumped three enormous piles of gravel, stone and soil along the edge of the driveway.

I instantly feel overwhelmed, particularly since my mind is filled with Karine’s flashing eyes.

I'm tempted to retreat and head back to the city, but what would that accomplish?

I force myself to work regardless, and manage to level the area and lay landscape fabric—but by noon, I’m done and can’t get any further.

I throw down the shovel disgustedly.

That night there’s more rain and the FM station plays Karine’s song again as I’m drifting off to sleep.

It seems Fate has conspired against me and is slowly driving me mad.

I"m so beat the following morning, I decide to take Sunday off – it’s a day of rest after all, but I know Monday I’ll have to finish the job.

The fact is, I just can’t concentrate, or I’ve lost my will. A ruined weekend, I grumble looking at the piles of gravel and stone.

Monday morning I rise early, determined to work right through, but by noon I’m totally exhausted and only halfway done.

I sit dejectedly on the pile of gravel, jeans soiled and cheek smeared with mud.

At that moment, a car pulls into the driveway and a beautiful girl gets out – she’s wearing sunglasses and is dressed in sweater and jeans.

At first, I can’t make out her face because of the sun’s glare, but then I hear a familiar, southern twang as she teasingly calls out, “Aren’t you supposed to be grading papers, Prof?”

My heart leaps in my chest at the sound of her voice.

She’s teasing, affecting the role of a southern belle, using her term paper as a fan, but her mocking gesture has the opposite effect—it inflames me with passion. I feel as if there’s a furnace behind me—and each brush of her fan causes waves of heat to roll over me.

She eyes my jeans, damp with sweat, and my red ragged tee. “You don’t look like a Prof anymore—I don’t know what to call you—certainly not, Professor Enright.”

“You can call me, James,” I grin.

“I brought lunch—as a peace offering. You ready for a break?”

“Oh yeah—about two hours ago,” I laugh.

“Where can we eat?”

“How about down by the lake?”

We sit in the shade of a huge Maple eating delicious Swiss cheese on rye and drinking ice-cold Labatt Blue beer.

“I didn’t know if Profs drank,” she giggles.

“We’re prone to all the weaknesses of the flesh,” I smile.

A shadow passes across her features. “Can we talk about the other day?”

I nod. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I hope she can’t hear it too.

“I’m not sure what happened,” she begins, “ we were there in the class and then suddenly we were in another room—and you know the crazy thing? We had a history, in some other time, in some other place.”

The air goes dead between us.

She gives a little nervous laugh. “I knew you’d think it was crazy—but, there—I said it—and I’m not taking it back.”

“I felt it too,” I whisper.

Her eyes grow huge. “You did?”

“Oh, it gets even crazier—you’re in my dreams every night.”

Tears blur her huge brown eyes.

“I was angry at somebody in my dreams,” she continues, “—for years, I’d be searching and looking for him—to blame him for leaving me.”

I resist the urge to put my arms around her, but want to more than anything—to protect and shelter her.

“You know the other day when I fell into your arms, I felt I was coming home—but I also felt something else—something that made me run.”

“What was it?” I rasp hoarsely.

She blushes and looks away, and just when I think she’s not going to answer, she whispers so low I can barely hear her. “I think Tennessee Williams calls it Desire.”

There are still three piles of gravel, stone and soil sitting out in my driveway up north—up where the cool pine breezes blow.

We go up there nearly every weekend now—Karine and I, to listen to the forest song.

Some nights we sit by the edge of the lake and stare at the northern lights.

And some nights, I swear I smell magnolias, but that’s impossible I know.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

Part one of Desire

Image credits: https://goo.gl/images/NYyjQU, https://goo.gl/images/iv2Apa, https://goo.gl/images/cC6Zlf