never shared it with anyone else. But, I’ve written a poem just for you, Lucy. Do you want to hear it?”
He didn’t allow Lucy the chance to refuse, and quickly slid a copy of the poem out from beneath his binder, and rotated the printout into place in front of her. As she glanced down, he began reciting the lines from memory. All the inner aching and pent-up emotion that had been tormenting him now poured out into each stanza’s reading. Even though the presence of students at the neighbouring tables made him keep his voice low, this only added to the poem’s sensual and intimate nature.
Lucy sat motionless throughout the recitation, her reaction impossible to read. When Flam finished, an uncomfortable silence spread between them, accentuated by the hub of the cafeteria crowd and the clanking of dishes, which now seemed surreally louder. The seconds dragged, and still Lucy sat deadpan, staring down at the sheet of paper. This was not how Flam had envisioned the climax. Perhaps he had been too subtle. She must have missed the crux of the verse, and didn’t realize the depth of his feelings. She clearly hadn’t understood how profoundly he longed for her.
He was about to blurt out, “Lucy, don’t you see . . . I love you!” when she finally spoke up, as if anticipating the words to come, and needing to intercept them, to prevent them from taking wing.
“Oh, Flam, it’s lovely. I’m really, really flattered,” Lucy sighed, her voice low, barely above a whisper. There was a sort of regret, almost a weariness, in her words, and Flam got the sudden impression she was speaking lines very familiar to her.
“Listen, Flam, I really like you a lot . . ..”
Please, God, no, Flam pleaded inwardly, anticipating the shoe that was about to drop, please . . . not the ‘F’ word.
“. . . as a friend.”
Thud. There was more about what a nice guy he was, and how smart he was, and how he deserved to find the perfect girl some day. It barely registered, as Flam stared down at the dull, institutional terrazzo of the cafeteria floor, which seemed to be spinning as he struggled to keep his mental equilibrium. He felt as insignificant as one of the stone ovals that made up the floor’s mottled pattern.
Flam had the urge to get up and flee back to his apartment, where he could hide behind his wall of books, cry, and lick his wounds. He realized he had been a fool all along to delude himself into thinking a woman so beautiful, so desirable, could possibly be attracted to a loser like him. And yet he clung to Lucy’s presence, even though everything was now a blur, and he felt like his insides had been torn out of him. Although she had rejected him, shredding his hopes and hurting him beyond words, he felt that as long as she was still there, across the table, he had not really lost her.
Lucy’s words dissolved into a meaningless drone, or rather, their overall meaning became so painfully evident to Flam that there was no need to dissect the individual phrases and phonemes. But then the tone shifted; the substance of what she was saying now began to register, and jolted him back from his mental haze.
“I wasn’t really looking to get involved with anyone,” Lucy was saying. “It just sort of happened. I’ve only been seeing him for a little while, but I think it might be serious.”
A boyfriend? Flam thought. Lucy never mentioned a boyfriend. Not that she had in fact told him anything at all about her personal life. Flam had never wanted to risk spoiling the magic of their precious moments together with nosy questions. Like a hiker who has a rare and beautiful butterfly light upon him and is afraid to move for fear of startling the creature, Flam had always avoided doing anything he thought might threaten his relationship with Lucy.
His continued silence, and the wretched look that had materialized on his face, evidently disturbed Lucy, and she reached over and placed her hand on his. Flam gazed up into her beguiling eyes, which seemed to be sparkling and shifting in colour as they caught the outside light through the glass blocks.
“Are you okay?” she asked, smiling encouragingly. The sheen of perfect teeth peeked out from behind glossy lips. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. Sure,” Flam mumbled, barely able to speak. The bell sounded and immediately the local din increased as students gathered their belongings and shuffled towards the exit.
Flam and Lucy stood up together and she hesitated a minute, as if seeing for the first time, in his slumped shoulders and tightly pressed lips, the full extent of the carnage her words had wreaked. She stepped forward and threw her arms around him in a hug. Flam was caught totally off guard, and holding his knapsack in one hand, had to fight hard just to keep his balance, let alone return the embrace. The closeness of her body pressed against his emanated a warmth that enveloped him like a layer of melting toffee, a feeling that lingered even after Lucy had swiftly pushed away.
“Are you coming?” she asked. He nodded, forcing a weak smile. Together they walked slowly to their next class.
Chapter 8
For the rest of the week, Flam sleepwalked through his classes, avoiding contact with his classmates, rarely speaking, barely paying attention to the lectures. Despite their vow of friendship, Lucy now seemed to keep their contact outside class to a minimum, but Flam doubted it was because of guilt over his morbidly depressed state. He hypothesized she was either expressing distaste for his unmanly moodiness, or thought he might be trying to exploit her conscience. She would still come to him for homework help, and engaged him in perfunctory small talk during classes, but now always seemed to have something else to do during their spare periods.
Each night, Flam dragged himself back to his tiny apartment, where he would scrape together some half-hearted attempt at a meal, only to leave it largely uneaten. He would sit placidly in the dark, brooding, until his self-pity built up to saturation. Then he would erupt into tears. He tried unsuccessfully to study, and instead was compulsively drawn to one of the thanatological texts he had collected, which dealt extensively with suicide. Flam regularly found himself turning its pages and weighing which form of self-destruction would be easiest and least painful. During this time he slept little, as his mind wrestled with the overwhelming feelings of hopelessness that seemed worst during the smallest hours. By the end of the week, the insomnia had made itself clearly visible in his gaunt appearance, especially the dark circles that were painting themselves ever darker and deeper beneath his blood-shot eyes.
Their last class of the week was Ms. Dichter’s, just after lunch on Friday. Lucy was absent, however, having already made an early start on her weekend. She’s probably rushing off to the arms of her lover, Flam supposed, and the thought dragged him even lower into his gloominess.
On this occasion the poetry professor was in rare form, for the topic of the day was T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” and she had no reservations in raving exuberantly to the class about the sheer brilliance of its language, the profundity of its imagery, and its significance in literature’s pantheon.
A short week ago, Flam, who adored the poem, would undoubtedly have been swept up in Ms. Dichter’s enthusiasm. In an attempt to impress Lucy, he would have spearheaded some participation from the students. Now, as he had done all week, he sat as mute and motionless as a cadaver through the entire lecture.
Afterwards, as he shuffled out, Ms. Dichter called after him, “Mr. Grub, I’d like a word with you if I may.” His name, especially the clearly enunciated delivery given it by the professor’s flagrantly dramatic voice, generated, as usual, a couple of titters and snickers from some of the exiting students. A blush swept across the white barrens of Flam’s cheeks as he turned to face Ms. Dichter, wondering what she could possibly want to talk to him about.
“Flam, I don’t like to poke my nose where it may not be welcome,” she began, her voice soft and intimate, “but I’ve got a lot of admiration for you and . . . and . . ..” She faltered trying to find the right words. “Oh, hell, I’ll just come right out and say it. You look dreadful. Frankly, you look like you’re about to become one of your own charges. Let me know if I’m being a big butt-insky but is everything all right with you?”
Flam was caught totally off guard. He coloured brightly and,