Pug Hill - Alison Pace [30]
From my vantage point, I see Tretorn shake his head at Roxy disapprovingly.
“Oh, Roxy,” he says and softly clucks at her. I’m pretty sure she’s peeing.
I smile to myself, silently cheering Roxy, cheering her independence. Before I turn to leave Pug Hill, I nod just barely in Roxy’s direction, not only a stealthy good-bye but also a thank-you to her, for being here this morning.
As I walk up the cement path, in the direction of the museum, I try to continue on the positive track; I try to think of all I do have, instead of thinking something along the lines of how now I don’t have Evan. Really, I have so much more, I remind myself, than a terribly mismatched relationship and a phone call that melted my heart for a moment but really was, in the end, just a phone call. I take a last look over my shoulder and see Roxy spinning around again. That’s a good note to leave on, surely as good as any. I have the pugs, I think as I walk toward the museum. I have them.
I settle into my desk, only a few minutes late. Elliot is the only one here.
“Hi, Elliot,” I say. Really though, I am just saying hi, I am not making a play for him now that one of us is single. The breaking of the traditional morning silence seems to disorient him for a second. He leans back on his stool and looks up at me.
“Hey, Hope,” he says, and his eyes are a little glazed-looking, and I wonder how long he has been here, and if he ever leaves. His eyes are also so green, but I have too many other things to think about. I glance at my Rothko, so intimidating, and think optimistically that focusing on it might be easier now, now that I have all this free space in my mind, now that I don’t have to think anymore about Evan. Before testing that theory out though, there’s something I need to do. I need to sign up for Overcoming Presentation Anxiety. I turn to my computer, stare at it for a minute, and open up my Internet Explorer. Before I can type anything, my eyes are drawn to the bottom of the screen, to where the IM man sits, completely still. I wonder if he’s ever going to bounce again. I think probably not. In spite of myself, in spite of all the other things I need to do, I imagine a future scenario in which the IM man could bounce again:
EVAN2020: Hope, I have all your stuff.
But that’s an IM that won’t ever come. Because, as I believe I have mentioned, I didn’t have a preponderance of stuff, hardly any, over at Evan’s. This is something I now feel was both indicative of, and resulting in, several problems. I tap on the delete key in my mind, rewriting for myself the imaginary IM from Evan.
EVAN2020: Hope, I have your contact lens case.
I imagine to myself that even if it were so much more than my contact lens case, even if it were my entire spring wardrobe, or every book I’ve ever loved and wanted to save, I would type back to him, hastily:
hopemcneill: Keep it, Evan.
And then a pause, and then alone, its own IM:
hopemcneill: everything is replaceable.
I shudder internally. Certainly, this is not productive, and also, most likely not normal. I turn back to the Internet Explorer, type in what I’ve needed to type in for far too long: www.newschool.edu. Okay, I think, taking another breath, here goes.
For an institution devoted to learning, the New School’s website is vastly confusing. I look up at Elliot, then notice Sergei across the room settling silently into his workstation; no one is paying any attention. Stealthily, I pull my spring bulletin out of my bag and flip to the back for directions. It explains there how to register online for classes, what to type in, where to click and hit send. I find the right page, click on the right buttons. I check the time and duration: Thursday nights at 7:30 P.M., for six weeks. Okay. I type, I click, I hit send, and then, it’s done. Or rather, I think, it’s begun. I try very hard not to feel afraid.