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A Love Story
- Louisiana State University Press
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135 A Love Story “How long?” “Excuse me? “How long have you loved her?” I was almost always the last out the door of Señora Nuborgen’s Spanish class. My last name, Zimmerman, kept me pinned in back of the alphabetically ordered rows, and I also spent most of every class daydreaming, or sometimes sleeping, and was always a beat behind when it came time to leave, at least compared to my clock-watching classmates, who looked spring-loaded when the bell rang. We were in the second-to-last week of school, the last period of the day, mostly seniors, which meant we’d all had enough, Señora Nuborgen included , which meant movie week, which meant we were watching a mid-’60s West German production of Don Quixote. It was some kind of miniseries, dubbed from German into Spanish and then subtitled into English, and for most of us it was instant Sominex. The more popular versions must have been claimed by other schools out of the regional district A/V library. Señora Nuborgen often seemed a beat behind herself that semester. The circles under her eyes had darkened. Her clothes hung loose and shapeless. Sometimes she seemed to be leaning on the desk for support. I looked at my shoes and then at the books cradled in my hand. I still carried them around as a prop, even though I had no use for them. “No sé,” I said. Señora Nuborgen insisted that we speak Spanish at all times during class. “You don’t know?” 136 “What? No! I meant no comprende.” “What don’t you understand?” Señora Nuborgen looked at me from behind her desk, both hands placed flat against her grade book. She wore what she always wore, a button-up sweater over a frilly blouse, an endless combination of argyles and creams. Her skirt, midcalf length, must have been either gray or black or brown, and the pantyhose in that color that only teachers wear. I suppose the package would have been labeled “flesh,” though no human has that skin tone. If you asked me how old she was I’m sure my seventeen-yearold self would have said “like fifty?” but she was probably in her midto late thirties, or about the age I am now. “No estas en amor,” I said, wondering why she wasn’t speaking Spanish, but I figured sticking with it gave me some plausible deniability as to what we were talking about. Señora Nuborgen sighed and tapped her fingers softly over the grade book like she was picking out notes on a piano. “Estoy, not estas . No estoy en amor. I am not in love. You said to me, ‘You are not in love,’ which is true enough, but not what you meant.” “No comprende?” “No, I suppose you don’t,” she said. She lowered her head, like she was praying over the grade book. I knew you weren’t supposed to walk away from a teacher until they were done talking to you, but I eased out the door before she could look up again. I haven’t thought of Jennifer Mecklenberg in a long time, years, not until the other night in bed, when my wife turned toward me and placed her hand on the book I was reading, lowering it from my gaze so I would look at her. Her face was sleepy, in that last moment of evening consciousness. “Do you love me?” she said. “Of course.” “Don’t answer that way,” she replied. Her blinks were slow and heavy. [34.227.112.145] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 18:56 GMT) 137 “What way?” I said, lifting the book back up, but still looking at her. “Unthinking, like it’s some sort of reflex.” “Why can’t my love for you be a reflex?” Her eyes closed fully. “Because that’s not how love is,” she said softly, almost sighing. She breathed deeply, slowly, asleep. I turned back to my book. “I know I’m not the only one you’ve loved,” she said. Her eyes were still closed, her voice a whisper, like she was talking to herself. I lowered my book again. “You’re the only one I’ve ever really loved,” I said. I placed a hand on her shoulder then slid it to her rising and falling ribs. She didn’t reply for a while, and then she spoke again. “You know that’s...