Ph.D.

Gilbert DeMeza. Blind Trust. 2007. Silk screen monotype. 30 × 22 inches.

Photo by J. M. Lennon.

In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs.

-Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence

Research

Thinking I might run into you at the library today, I stopped by your carrel. Empty except for a few, slim volumes. Don’t you have a dissertation to finish? I thought of your fantasy: the cool cement walls, the occasional click of heels in the stacks. If you had come by, I would have lifted my skirt.

But you didn’t come by, and I walked downtown feeling exposed. The weather was good, so I thought I might see you strolling in your t-shirt and shorts. I wandered through the farmers’ market, bought five Brandy Wine tomatoes from that Amish beauty. She wore our favorite blue dress, surprisingly flattering for its prairie shape. Her blonde curls poked beneath the edges of her cap. One hot bonnet, you said when we spotted her last summer. I laughed: our little Amish joke.

Today in the crowd of people trawling for local produce, I saw a man who looked like you from a distance. He called to a woman buying peaches, very pregnant, carrying a basket of carrots, collards, and sunflowers. It’s the kind of scene you would have made fun of—self-satisfied, future baby-sling-wearing, hybrid-driving liberals. And yet in teasing you would have revealed both how much you actually wanted that life and how you were not entirely sure you wanted it with me.

Knowing I shouldn't, I left the tomatoes on your porch swing. Your car was not in the driveway, and I walked home in a fluster, berating myself for being silly enough to want to buy you locally grown produce.

I returned hours later, concerned that an unmarked bag of tomatoes might look suspicious—or worse, like trash. The idea was to take them home with me, turn them into something useful, like a sane, summery salad with basil and mozzarella. The bag of tomatoes had disappeared. I saw a light in your office window, which got my hopes up, but it was only the glow from your screensaver. I looked for shadows. I listened for voices coming through an open window. I felt ill as I watched from behind a tree.

But I did not move until a dog-walker stopped nearby, then squatted to retrieve her poodle's tiny shit. A demeaning task, we agreed once, when we considered rescuing a greyhound together. And how embarrassing for the dog—no privacy! This woman did not even look away, but congratulated her pooch on its instinctive behavior. I'm quite glad we decided not to adopt. Who would walk the dog now? Who would feed it?

Standing in front of your apartment, I halfexpected to see you traipsing home with Miriam. Before you moved out last month, you said you were ambivalent about her advances. She makes you crazy because she believes in the superiority of archaeology—(tangible objects!)—over your great passion, Medieval French poetry (so subjective and, frankly, a little too obsessed with martyrs and saints). Here is what I imagine: she has been calling you in the middle of the night from the Ancient Roman wing of the museum. Right now, she’s probably giving you a private and illuminating tour of Etruscan vases. Miriam could be beautiful, but she refuses to moisturize and has poor fashion sense: saggy overalls and threadbare t-shirts. A person would never be able to make her see the benefits of a flattering wrap dress. Rumors in the Comp Lit and English crowd suggest that you have admitted she looks good naked, in spite of all the body hair.

I find Miriam’s lack of vanity almost grotesque. But if I had met her separately from you, I imagine I might have liked her.

Preliminary Exams

I read for days...