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Show feet and ran back to his VW Gulf. We used to tell a joke about the cornfield, but I haveforgotten it. What I remember is the feel of cornhusks against my back. I had been chosen. A tall, blue-eyed, sexy man had chosen me. A man who drank and smoked pot, who had met Mick Jagger and played the guitar, a man who wore aftershave and ordered vodka gimlets, a man who had left another woman for me. I clung to that knowledge, worried, I suppose, that I would never be chosen again, that I would be alone. I remember racing up the stairs to his office after class, brimming with ideas about Shakespeare and the Romantics, my heart pounding not from the steps but from the excitement of seeing him. Someone wanted me. And, it turns out, he wanted others too. Could I not have seen that coming? The first, Heidi, thin, sexy, Heidi, my friend. September of my senior year, I learned he had been sleeping with her for months. After he left my apartment late at night he would drive to hers. He told her that he loved her and wanted to be with her at the same time he was planning on being with me. He would grow angry and yell at me whenever I would question how he danced with her, how he fitted his body into hers, how much time they spent together. Such an old story. Looking back, I see it all. Then, though, I just tried desperately to keep him. In October we were engaged. The women never stopped: Heidi, Stacy, Kinau, Sydney, finally Athena, the woman he had an affair with and later married. All the time John saying I was 218 |
