Perennials

by Christopher Robin Smith

He looked up and saw her sitting in the front row. She was beautiful. Her long brown hair, thick and wavy, cut across her brow at a sensual angle. She was a senior and had managed to stave off the advances of a good number of quite eligible undergraduates. She wasn’t cold, nor was she cruel. She had plans for her future, and those plans didn’t include being someone’s sweetheart.

1967. It was his second year as a professor. Though barely older than his students, he was easing into the stature granted by his professional position. The college President warned him rather indelicately that there was to be no fraternizing with female students. The President, a man in his late fifties, had never married. Over the years, the President had published a series of books on Ralph Waldo Emerson and was, in fact, quite well respected in Emersonian circles. The professor thought it odd that this man would bluntly address this issue so early on. What sort of college was this, he wondered.

In the days following the discussion in the President’s office, his mind conjured up fantasies of wanton female undergraduates knocking on his door late at night, each more beautiful than the last.

Then came the first day of class. While the west coast was reeling from a summer of love, this east coast ivy-covered institution was gearing up for a semester of hard work. The students, especially the women, seemed bookish and serious about their studies. As he wrote his name on the blackboard, his conjured-up images of late-night encounters with beautiful co-eds went up in a cloud of chalk dust.

But this girl was different somehow. A look in her eye made him instantly curious about what she was thinking. To a man, that mystery is all it takes to forge an obsession with a woman. But she was no woman. She was his student.

Each week before the class she attended, his heart would race a bit at the thought of encountering her. He frequently began class by gently patting his brow with his handkerchief, warmed by the promise of being in her presence. He went short of breath when he thought about looking up from his lectern and stealing a glance at her cheek, neck, and lips.

She raised her hand in class, and he nearly didn’t call on her. He was sure she would blurt out something like, “I know that you’re secretly in love with me…” or “Am I the only girl he’s staring at?” He did call on her once but with deliberate disinterest not to reveal his hand. He was a poker-faced professor in love. Thankfully, she didn’t preface her question with any romantic indictment. She asked about Emily Brontë. He answered her question thoroughly, relishing each moment of permissible direct eye contact. Afterward, he couldn’t remember what he’d said. He hoped he hadn’t made a fool of himself. He’d hoped he’d spouted out an astute and insightful answer. He didn’t remember because while they spoke, he thought of only one thing—that he was, indeed, in love.

Later in the semester, he sat alone in his office grading exams. He picked up her blue-covered examination booklet. While all the students wrote in the same booklets, her pages seemed softer. He admired her handwriting, which was fluid but not prissy. He embarrassed himself by holding her examination up to his nose, hoping the pages would somehow retain her bouquet. After much deliberation about his true motives, he gave her an “A.” She was bright, and that made him love her more.

At a champagne brunch before Commencement, she approached and introduced him to her parents. After months of carefully maintaining his professorial demeanor, he tried to sound more like a student while conversing with her parents. They seemed unaffected by the encounter. He was a nervous wreck afterward, downing three glasses of champagne in rapid succession.

He watched her receive her diploma, hoping she would find him in the crowd of robed professors. She shook hands with the President, took her scrolled degree, and crossed the stage with a confident stride. Just as she was ready to step down, her eye caught his. She smiled at her now former professor, a smile he took to let him know she was no longer his student.

He was beside himself when he learned she had signed up to stay on campus that summer as a volunteer for an archival project in the library. He’d summered in Maine the year before but had decided to stay home and work on his book. “Publish or perish” was the admonition from tenured professors, and he wasn’t about to be left out in the cold.

The summer of 1968 was grim for most. The country was still mourning the loss of two of its heroes, there were race riots in the great industrial cities of the north, and the Vietnam War was escalating. While these events touched the professor and even saddened him, his world was right. That summer allowed him to get to know the woman who had been his student.

During the first few weeks of the summer, they passed each other several times. Once at the post office. Once at the grocery store. And once in the library. Each time the professor awkwardly tried to conceal his desire for her. She was always charming, and each encounter only made him fall more deeply in love.

One day, as he walked along the path leading to his office, he got caught in a sudden summer rain shower. He ducked under a tree to stay dry. The rain fell harder, and a moment later, she ran under the same tree for shelter. Her hair was wet from the rain, and her blue eyes looked green against the shimmering leaves. Fate and nature had conspired to bring them together. Now was his chance. After a few minutes of small talk, mainly about the weather and how quiet the campus was without the students, he screwed up his courage and asked her if she’d like to come to his house for brunch on Sunday and though he wasn’t a great cook he was known to make an impressive omelet from time to time. She accepted. The rain stopped, and the encounter ended cordially, with the two heading in opposite directions.

That was on a Friday. Saturday passed so slowly that the professor was on the verge of screaming out loud more than once. On Sunday morning, he rose early and tidied up his sparsely furnished but overcrowded with books little cottage. He practiced omelet making, using up a dozen eggs on the trial runs.

She arrived at the appointed hour. She looked lovely, her hair silhouetted by the morning sun behind her. He noticed then that she wore no make-up. He’d never really thought about it before, one way or the other. Still, at that moment, he recognized that her beauty came to her naturally.

She carried with her a paper bag and opened it to show him its contents– daffodil bulbs. She carefully surveyed the yard and asked him if she could plant them below the bedroom window. He shrugged his shoulders and asked if she needed help. She didn’t. He watched her as she scooped out chunks of soil, planted each bulb, and then replaced the earth, gently patting it with her hands. She talked about the daffodil, that they were her favorite flower, and that she had been looking all over campus for the right spot to plant them. She told him that they would bloom yearly was one of the daffodils’ most compelling features.

After the planting, he could feel her watching him as he cooked their omelets. She commented on his precision as a chef. He laughed and confessed that he had been practicing all morning. By the time they sat down to eat, they were friends, and soon after the last dish was washed and dried, they were lovers.
After a courtship and engagement of appropriate length, with the blessing of the college President and her parents, they married. She worked full-time in the library, and he finished his book.

They shared that cottage, filling it with more books but no more furniture. And the conversation that began at brunch that Sunday has yet to end. One Sunday morning each spring, they drag the couch into the yard and face it toward the bedroom window. He holds her as they whisper, laugh, kiss, and admire the deep yellow blooms of the daffodils.

Perennials

by Christopher Robin Smith

He looked up and saw her sitting in the front row. She was beautiful. Her long brown hair, thick and wavy, cut across her brow at a sensual angle. She was a senior and had managed to stave off the advances of a good number of quite eligible undergraduates. She wasn’t cold, nor was she cruel. She had plans for her future, and those plans didn’t include being someone’s sweetheart.

1967. It was his second year as a professor. Though barely older than his students, he was easing into the stature granted by his professional position. The college President warned him rather indelicately that there was to be no fraternizing with female students. The President, a man in his late fifties, had never married. Over the years, the President had published a series of books on Ralph Waldo Emerson and was, in fact, quite well respected in Emersonian circles. The professor thought it odd that this man would bluntly address this issue so early on. What sort of college was this, he wondered.

In the days following the discussion in the President’s office, his mind conjured up fantasies of wanton female undergraduates knocking on his door late at night, each more beautiful than the last.

Then came the first day of class. While the west coast was reeling from a summer of love, this east coast ivy-covered institution was gearing up for a semester of hard work. The students, especially the women, seemed bookish and serious about their studies. As he wrote his name on the blackboard, his conjured-up images of late-night encounters with beautiful co-eds went up in a cloud of chalk dust.

But this girl was different somehow. A look in her eye made him instantly curious about what she was thinking. To a man, that mystery is all it takes to forge an obsession with a woman. But she was no woman. She was his student.

Each week before the class she attended, his heart would race a bit at the thought of encountering her. He frequently began class by gently patting his brow with his handkerchief, warmed by the promise of being in her presence. He went short of breath when he thought about looking up from his lectern and stealing a glance at her cheek, neck, and lips.

She raised her hand in class, and he nearly didn’t call on her. He was sure she would blurt out something like, “I know that you’re secretly in love with me…” or “Am I the only girl he’s staring at?” He did call on her once but with deliberate disinterest not to reveal his hand. He was a poker-faced professor in love. Thankfully, she didn’t preface her question with any romantic indictment. She asked about Emily Brontë. He answered her question thoroughly, relishing each moment of permissible direct eye contact. Afterward, he couldn’t remember what he’d said. He hoped he hadn’t made a fool of himself. He’d hoped he’d spouted out an astute and insightful answer. He didn’t remember because while they spoke, he thought of only one thing—that he was, indeed, in love.

Later in the semester, he sat alone in his office grading exams. He picked up her blue-covered examination booklet. While all the students wrote in the same booklets, her pages seemed softer. He admired her handwriting, which was fluid but not prissy. He embarrassed himself by holding her examination up to his nose, hoping the pages would somehow retain her bouquet. After much deliberation about his true motives, he gave her an “A.” She was bright, and that made him love her more.

At a champagne brunch before Commencement, she approached and introduced him to her parents. After months of carefully maintaining his professorial demeanor, he tried to sound more like a student while conversing with her parents. They seemed unaffected by the encounter. He was a nervous wreck afterward, downing three glasses of champagne in rapid succession.

He watched her receive her diploma, hoping she would find him in the crowd of robed professors. She shook hands with the President, took her scrolled degree, and crossed the stage with a confident stride. Just as she was ready to step down, her eye caught his. She smiled at her now former professor, a smile he took to let him know she was no longer his student.

He was beside himself when he learned she had signed up to stay on campus that summer as a volunteer for an archival project in the library. He’d summered in Maine the year before but had decided to stay home and work on his book. “Publish or perish” was the admonition from tenured professors, and he wasn’t about to be left out in the cold.

The summer of 1968 was grim for most. The country was still mourning the loss of two of its heroes, there were race riots in the great industrial cities of the north, and the Vietnam War was escalating. While these events touched the professor and even saddened him, his world was right. That summer allowed him to get to know the woman who had been his student.

During the first few weeks of the summer, they passed each other several times. Once at the post office. Once at the grocery store. And once in the library. Each time the professor awkwardly tried to conceal his desire for her. She was always charming, and each encounter only made him fall more deeply in love.

One day, as he walked along the path leading to his office, he got caught in a sudden summer rain shower. He ducked under a tree to stay dry. The rain fell harder, and a moment later, she ran under the same tree for shelter. Her hair was wet from the rain, and her blue eyes looked green against the shimmering leaves. Fate and nature had conspired to bring them together. Now was his chance. After a few minutes of small talk, mainly about the weather and how quiet the campus was without the students, he screwed up his courage and asked her if she’d like to come to his house for brunch on Sunday and though he wasn’t a great cook he was known to make an impressive omelet from time to time. She accepted. The rain stopped, and the encounter ended cordially, with the two heading in opposite directions.

That was on a Friday. Saturday passed so slowly that the professor was on the verge of screaming out loud more than once. On Sunday morning, he rose early and tidied up his sparsely furnished but overcrowded with books little cottage. He practiced omelet making, using up a dozen eggs on the trial runs.

She arrived at the appointed hour. She looked lovely, her hair silhouetted by the morning sun behind her. He noticed then that she wore no make-up. He’d never really thought about it before, one way or the other. Still, at that moment, he recognized that her beauty came to her naturally.

She carried with her a paper bag and opened it to show him its contents– daffodil bulbs. She carefully surveyed the yard and asked him if she could plant them below the bedroom window. He shrugged his shoulders and asked if she needed help. She didn’t. He watched her as she scooped out chunks of soil, planted each bulb, and then replaced the earth, gently patting it with her hands. She talked about the daffodil, that they were her favorite flower, and that she had been looking all over campus for the right spot to plant them. She told him that they would bloom yearly was one of the daffodils’ most compelling features.

After the planting, he could feel her watching him as he cooked their omelets. She commented on his precision as a chef. He laughed and confessed that he had been practicing all morning. By the time they sat down to eat, they were friends, and soon after the last dish was washed and dried, they were lovers.
After a courtship and engagement of appropriate length, with the blessing of the college President and her parents, they married. She worked full-time in the library, and he finished his book.

They shared that cottage, filling it with more books but no more furniture. And the conversation that began at brunch that Sunday has yet to end. One Sunday morning each spring, they drag the couch into the yard and face it toward the bedroom window. He holds her as they whisper, laugh, kiss, and admire the deep yellow blooms of the daffodils.