Emily is short and dark. Such women are dangerous. Everything is compressed into a small package.
In addition, dark women have an excess of melanin. This makes them fiery and unpredictable. The fact Emily is neither does not dissuade me. I’ve been around, and know the past does not predict the future.
She sat, uninvited, next to me. When a woman sits at your table without being invited it is flattering. I forgot to mention Emily has very dark eyes and is attractive. But then all women with very dark eyes are attractive, so I’m being redundant.
We sat in the atrium of an old brick warehouse, redone into classrooms and reading areas. Great red tubes of exposed duct work ran along the ceiling. Cups clicked on tables. A barista with nose and lip piercings poured coffee behind a glass counter. Glancing around, I asked Emily where Derek was. Derek is Emily’s fellow MFA student. Wherever Emily is, Derek is close by. I believe they are a couple, although I can’t prove it.
“Oh, he’s around somewhere.”
“How are classes?”
“Fine.” She leaned down and opened her satchel. “I want you to look at something.” She wore a low cut peasant blouse. She dropped a sheet on the table.
Uh-oh. It was a poem. I have a well-known rule never to judge a developing writer’s work.
“I wrote this in class,” Emily explained. “I need your opinion.”
“I don’t have many opinions.”
“Oh shut up. You have more opinions than Coleridge.”
I tried to think if Coleridge had a lot of opinions.
“And you’re a poet.”
“I try to hide that.”
“You’re not doing a very good job.”
Whatever that meant. “Don’t you workshop these things?”
“Just tell me what you think, and hurry. Derek will be here any minute.”
“So?”
“He thinks you’re full of hot air.”
That did it. I took up the poem. “It looks fine.”
“Really?”
What did I know? Plus, I spotted Derek coming down the wide atrium stairs. I gave Emily her poem back. Derek sauntered over. He is tall and lean, and blond. You wonder what their kids would look like, if they had kids. Tall and lean? Or short and compact. Or something in between. You can’t help it.
“Hi,” he said. “I have something for you, and need your opinion.” He reached into his own satchel.
Uh-oh. It was a poem. “Do you really trust me?” I asked.
“No. But you’re a curmudgeon. In class, everyone is all rainbows and unicorns. I like the opposite.”
Sure he did. “Tell you what,” I said, leaving his poem on the table. “You two critique each other.”
“Really?” Emily said.
“Sit here, Derek. Thatta boy. Now, I have to run. But trade poems and be honest with each other. Open up. You might learn something you didn’t know before. You’ll get more that way than out of me. A lot more.”
I slapped Derek on the back. He coughed. I left them there, shyly exchanging pages. Heading for the parking lot, I jingled keys. My work here, I thought, is done.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com