His hands were dry and rough from using chalk all day. So were hers. She got goose bumps when he held her tight, palms open pressing gently on the small of her back. They kissed passionately and in that moment they forgot about the rest of the world.
The rest of the world consisted of the school where they both worked, her uptight family and most of the citizens of their small, cranky town. First, they could never be seen together by any of the school staff – it was against the rules. Second, her parents would never approve their only daughter dating a dark foreigner. She wasn’t sure what they thought was worse: being dark or being “not from around here”. Third, if anyone saw them together it was certain that both the school and her family would know about it faster than a bullet.
And that’s why they met late at night in his studio. It was a small and neat place, with an open kitchen and one room where he put a small dinner table, a sofa-bed and a tv. It was located on a narrow street above a bakery. There were more shops than houses in that area, so when they closed at night there weren’t many people around.
He had opened his sofa-bed and they cuddled under his thick wool blanket for the gazillionth time this year when he said:
“Let’s go somewhere”.
“Where?” She asked, unconcerned.
“Somewhere we can be together, where nobody will care”.
“Only if there’s a beautiful sunny beach we can go every day”.
“I mean it. Let’s make a plan and leave. I can’t hide anymore”.
“I don’t like it either. But where would we go? Where would we work? What about my family?”
He sighed and held her closer, playing with her short brown curls.
For a few weeks they talked about it some more. He showed her his research – nice cities they could move to, schools they could apply to work at, new places they could visit together.
“I just want to be with you. I want to hold your hand and kiss your lips and not have to pretend we don’t know each other”.
“I know, me too! Give me some time and I’ll figure out how to deal with my parents”.
“Your parents…”
The following Friday they found themselves alone at the teacher’s room. They spoke softly as they sat across from each other at the big table and struggled not to reach out for each other’s hands. He sipped his coffee. She ate her cookie. They took furtive glances.
When one of the other teachers came in, they pretended to read their respective textbooks. He gathered his things and walked slowly out the door, murmuring goodbyes. The other teacher sat next to her and asked in a badly disguised conspiratorial whisper:
“He’s hot, isn’t he?”
“I guess so, if you like the type”. She replied, dryly.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed the way he looks at you!”
“What?! No! You’re imagining things”.
“I don’t know… One hears whispers…”
“Whispers? What kind of whispers?”
“That he receives mysterious visits at night. Of a certain white lady with short brown curls”.
“You’re out of your mind if you think I have anything to do with that-” She stopped midsentence and stomped out of the room, flushed. He didn’t have time to leave or hide and they practically collided by the teacher’s room door. She gasped and looked at him terrified but couldn’t articulate a word. He tried not to look so shocked but left with his head hanging down.
The weekend was madness. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she had done. Why had she reacted like that? Was she actually afraid people would see them as a couple? She wouldn’t leave her room and her mother believed she was sick - she kept on bringing soup, tea, hot milk. All she wanted was that he picked up his phone. She would beg for his forgiveness, she would say she never meant what she’d said, that she would tell her parents, that they would go away and be together.
She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t concentrate on her lesson plans. All she could think about was him – did he hate her? Would he forgive her and take her back? Why wasn’t he picking up his phone?
On Sunday afternoon she had decided: she was going to introduce him to her parents. To hell with her mother’s explicit dreams of having pink-faced grandchildren. To hell with her father’s undisguised prejudiced comments and their suffocating overprotection. She loved him and she would go away with him.
She stormed out of the house wearing flowered pajama bottoms and an old grey cardigan. Her mom didn’t have time to ask where she was going nor to stop her. When she arrived at his door she was breathless and all the words she thought she would say to him had fled her mind.
His lights were out. She rang the doorbell once. Waited. Looked around. Rang it twice. Waited. Knocked on the door. After ringing, knocking and sobbing for what seemed an eternity an old man appeared at a window across the street:
“Are you looking for the teacher?”
“Yes! Have you seen him?”
“Are you his girl?”
“… yes”.
“Oh dear. You’re too late. He left”.
“Left? Where?”
“I don’t know. I saw him leave with a big old suitcase before the sun was up. Put his key in the mailbox and never told anyone where he was going”.
For almost a year she searched for him – his hometown, the places he had mentioned they could live together. His phone number was deactivated and so was his email address. She didn’t know any of his friends or family. She was lost. She had lost him.
She went back to her literature classes but her students say she didn’t have the same passion as before.
Her mother never had pink faced grandchildren.
The rest of the world consisted of the school where they both worked, her uptight family and most of the citizens of their small, cranky town. First, they could never be seen together by any of the school staff – it was against the rules. Second, her parents would never approve their only daughter dating a dark foreigner. She wasn’t sure what they thought was worse: being dark or being “not from around here”. Third, if anyone saw them together it was certain that both the school and her family would know about it faster than a bullet.
And that’s why they met late at night in his studio. It was a small and neat place, with an open kitchen and one room where he put a small dinner table, a sofa-bed and a tv. It was located on a narrow street above a bakery. There were more shops than houses in that area, so when they closed at night there weren’t many people around.
He had opened his sofa-bed and they cuddled under his thick wool blanket for the gazillionth time this year when he said:
“Let’s go somewhere”.
“Where?” She asked, unconcerned.
“Somewhere we can be together, where nobody will care”.
“Only if there’s a beautiful sunny beach we can go every day”.
“I mean it. Let’s make a plan and leave. I can’t hide anymore”.
“I don’t like it either. But where would we go? Where would we work? What about my family?”
He sighed and held her closer, playing with her short brown curls.
For a few weeks they talked about it some more. He showed her his research – nice cities they could move to, schools they could apply to work at, new places they could visit together.
“I just want to be with you. I want to hold your hand and kiss your lips and not have to pretend we don’t know each other”.
“I know, me too! Give me some time and I’ll figure out how to deal with my parents”.
“Your parents…”
The following Friday they found themselves alone at the teacher’s room. They spoke softly as they sat across from each other at the big table and struggled not to reach out for each other’s hands. He sipped his coffee. She ate her cookie. They took furtive glances.
When one of the other teachers came in, they pretended to read their respective textbooks. He gathered his things and walked slowly out the door, murmuring goodbyes. The other teacher sat next to her and asked in a badly disguised conspiratorial whisper:
“He’s hot, isn’t he?”
“I guess so, if you like the type”. She replied, dryly.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed the way he looks at you!”
“What?! No! You’re imagining things”.
“I don’t know… One hears whispers…”
“Whispers? What kind of whispers?”
“That he receives mysterious visits at night. Of a certain white lady with short brown curls”.
“You’re out of your mind if you think I have anything to do with that-” She stopped midsentence and stomped out of the room, flushed. He didn’t have time to leave or hide and they practically collided by the teacher’s room door. She gasped and looked at him terrified but couldn’t articulate a word. He tried not to look so shocked but left with his head hanging down.
The weekend was madness. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she had done. Why had she reacted like that? Was she actually afraid people would see them as a couple? She wouldn’t leave her room and her mother believed she was sick - she kept on bringing soup, tea, hot milk. All she wanted was that he picked up his phone. She would beg for his forgiveness, she would say she never meant what she’d said, that she would tell her parents, that they would go away and be together.
She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t concentrate on her lesson plans. All she could think about was him – did he hate her? Would he forgive her and take her back? Why wasn’t he picking up his phone?
On Sunday afternoon she had decided: she was going to introduce him to her parents. To hell with her mother’s explicit dreams of having pink-faced grandchildren. To hell with her father’s undisguised prejudiced comments and their suffocating overprotection. She loved him and she would go away with him.
She stormed out of the house wearing flowered pajama bottoms and an old grey cardigan. Her mom didn’t have time to ask where she was going nor to stop her. When she arrived at his door she was breathless and all the words she thought she would say to him had fled her mind.
His lights were out. She rang the doorbell once. Waited. Looked around. Rang it twice. Waited. Knocked on the door. After ringing, knocking and sobbing for what seemed an eternity an old man appeared at a window across the street:
“Are you looking for the teacher?”
“Yes! Have you seen him?”
“Are you his girl?”
“… yes”.
“Oh dear. You’re too late. He left”.
“Left? Where?”
“I don’t know. I saw him leave with a big old suitcase before the sun was up. Put his key in the mailbox and never told anyone where he was going”.
For almost a year she searched for him – his hometown, the places he had mentioned they could live together. His phone number was deactivated and so was his email address. She didn’t know any of his friends or family. She was lost. She had lost him.
She went back to her literature classes but her students say she didn’t have the same passion as before.
Her mother never had pink faced grandchildren.
