The Cut

Henry is typing...

It popped up in the online portal for my brilliantly boring anthropology class. Our professor loved what he taught, that much was clear, but he had a tendency to drone for the two-hour-long class in monotone bass, delving into the intricacies of juxtaposed stories of humans gone by. The fact that I stayed awake at all was impressive. I doodled on my scrap paper, maintaining the image of a devoted, note-taking student while drawing abstract sketches of eyeballs, intermixed with the odd existential question.

I aced every test.

Henry sat behind me in class, no doubt noting my utter lack of attention, marveling at my top score posted in the hallway after midterms. I had a study group...and he wanted in. He was a gentle young man with kind eyes and long, elegant fingers. I'd admired his artists' hands on many occasions out of the corner of my eye, sometimes trying to capture the rapturous lines of his thumb on my notepaper, always to no avail. You couldn't draw hands like his. Henry was obviously brilliant, in that quiet sort of way, but I'd avoided him like the plague when I'd formed my little study group. He was dangerous. I could tell the things he did with those hands.

He played acoustic guitar.

And ran fingers under lines of Shakespeare.

He painted portraits of girls with blonde curls and green eyes.

And wrote.

He tucked wisps of hair behind ears... with those hands.

Yes, Henry and his artist hands were dangerous.

They were dangerous because I was engaged.

And I wanted them all over me.

Henry is typing...

A private message.

How the fuck did you score like that on the midterm? Hawthorn is notorious for his tests. No one has ever gotten higher than an 85.

...

Shit.

I shouldn't even start this conversation. I should continue to ignore him. There's something in the air between us that would be better left untouched. I'm engaged.

But I'm a pushover...

I can't just ignore him.

That would be rude.

...Hey.

Hey back...

... So are you gonna cut me in? How are you getting all of his reading in with your other classes? I'm taking 12 credits and I don't have time. Are you on half time or something?

You're gonna be disappointed. It's not all that brilliant. I don't do the reading... I'm full time. 19 credits.

What the actual hell? YOU must be brilliant.

I'm not. But fine, come to study group next Wednesday, 3pm in the student center. We meet by the fountain.

Shit. I have class then. Meet me for coffee before class on Monday?

Fuck me. He gave me a compliment, had a potty mouth, and liked coffee.

..I'll buy.

I really shouldn't. I'm engaged.

What does that have to do with anything? Can't a friend take another friend out for coffee in hopes they'll reveal the secrets of passing class? It's not like it's a date or anything. I just need help.

Fine. you had me at coffee.

10am? Meet me at the Witching Brew. It's on 4th.

I'll be there.

I wanted to take back the words the second they were typed. My fiance lay snoring on the bed next to me, his face relaxed in blissful ignorance. I knew then that I was a terrible person, and that I would be going to meet Henry anyway.

_______________________

It was cloudy when Monday morning came. I stooped under the door of the Witches Brew five minutes late. I could feel Henry's eyes. This wasn't about studying.

I wound my way through the crowded coffee house, arriving finally at the little table in the back corner he'd chosen. He gestured for me to sit, a mischievous glint in his eye. "It's so good to see the front of you," he teased, extending his long hand to clasp mine in greeting. I took his hand and sat, waiting for him to let go, but he didn't.

We held hands over the tabletop, and though we were still strangers, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment I got lost in the dangerous glint in his eyes, but then I stole my hand back and tucked it under the table, muttering, "I'm engaged," under my breath.

"But not married," he whispered back.

"I should go." I stood.

"Please don't." His eyes were pleading, "I'm sorry. I see I went about this wrong... there's just something about you. I... I can't stop thinking about you. I..fuck... I said too much--"

"I'm here to study," I said, fixing him with a stern gaze and sitting back down.

"I know that. Right. I know that." He smiled, "sorry again...so..." The air was rife with the sexual tension I refused to acknowledge (to his face anyway). "How do you do it?"

I was having a difficult time getting my mind off of what he'd said-- I can't stop thinking about you-- but I finally found it in myself to speak, "Do what?"

"Study, of course- for Hawthorne's class."

"Oh, that. Um. I don't, really." He just looked at me with a tiny crinkle between his perfect eyebrows before waving a hand, urging me to continue. I took a deep breath and launched in, forgetting for a moment that I was sat across from a man who was trying to steal me away from my betrothed (terribly romantic, by the way), "Okay, so by about the second week of term, I realized there was no way I could do the reading... so... you know Jennifer, right? Sits in the front all of the time. Black hair. Glasses?"

He nodded in understanding, "Well... she does allll of the reading. So... I asked her to study with me. I read one small section and then just bullshit while she tells me about everything else. I take a few notes and study those. It's like having the highlights without doing any of the work. Clark-- the tall guy--" Henry nearly spit coffee at that, and I chuckled, too. Clark was unreasonably tall, really. His head brushed the doorframe when he came into lecture. "-- anyway-- he also does the reading. So I just sit there and let the two of them bicker over the chapters and take notes on the most important points. Then, I interrupt and act really smart and talk about the paragraph I read.... see... simple."

"Genius," Henry replied with the one word to my rambling.

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome. So, do you have any other interests aside from conquering the entire university system?" He leaned back and steepled his fingers expectantly.

"Um.. well... I write."

A slow smile spread on his face, "I knew it! What do you write about? What genre?"

The moment writing was brought up I stopped worrying entirely about my fiance. This was my kind of conversation and one that I would never be able to share with the man I was about to marry.

"Do you write, too?" I asked.

He smiled, "Duh."

I smiled back, "Well, I write a little bit of everything. But. I usually just write stories about my life."

"Really? I bet they're marvelous." He took my hand again and we got lost in conversation for the next several hours. We missed class. I missed the lunch date I'd promised my fiance. We'd eaten several blackberry scones and drunk countless cups of coffee. I had never before or since experienced such instant chemistry with another individual. I was right. He did play guitar. And write. And read. And paint.

And when he reached up to brush fallen curls behind my ear, I let him. He leaned in.

I leaned in. "I can't stop thinking about you," he whispered again.

"Neither can I," I replied.

"You're engaged...?" he questioned.

"...but not married..." I smiled. And just then, my phone rang, shattering the spell that had clung to us for the last several hours in the Witches Brew. It was my fiance.

"Are you alive?" he asked, in familiar baritone.

"Yes," I replied, "Just got caught up studying, sorry." Henry snickered at that and I winked.

"Oh good-- I was worried about you. I'm glad you're okay. Take your time, babe, I have dinner on for when you get home." Every word chipped away at the delusion Henry and I had been crafting. "I love you," he said.

And I replied, "I love you, bye."

Henry's face shattered at that.

I set down the phone and looked at him with a terrible wistful longing... Oh, what could have been...

"I'm too late," Henry said, resigned, "I've showed up too late for my soul mate."

"I'm sorry," was all I could muster. What he'd just said was true, and we both knew it. We also knew I was too much of a coward to break things off with my fiance. I stood and turned to go.

"Wait," he said, and I hoped he would beg me to stay, I hoped he would fight for me, but we were still just strangers, caught in the snare of love at first sight, "Did I make the cut? Will you write about me, someday?" I walked back to the table and tucked his own curls behind his ear.

"I will."

I walked away, forever haunted by what might've been-- by the kiss we didn't share.

And today:

Henry is typing...

He finally made the cut.