on the landing of the central staircase, wearing jeans and an Emma Goldman T-shirt. In casual clothes, she was nearly indistinguishable from the older graduate students milling around.
She stood up as he approached. “You’re in my Presocratics class, aren’t you?”
He was both thrilled and alarmed that she’d addressed him. “Yeah, I’m Stu.”
“You can call me Rachel,” she said. She sipped from her plastic cup of red wine. “Outside of class, anyway.”
“I like your shirt,” said Stu, nodding at Emma Goldman. “Are you an anarchist?”
“I’m skeptical of power,” she said, shrugging. “And, you know, the system.” Her voice was gently ironic. “But I vote.”
“Hey, Chomsky votes, right?” said Stu.
“Right! Exactly.” Rachel finished most of her wine in a single gulp, then frowned a little at the tiny cup. “And are you a musician?”
Stu wondered if he was giving off some palpable creative vibe. “Guitarist. How’d you know?”
Her dark eyes were full of fun. “The pants are a giveaway.”
Stu peered down at his skinny black jeans. “Right. Ha. But I’m a songwriter, too,” he added. “Though I haven’t written much since I got here.” He hooked his thumb into his pocket. “Everything sounds trite when I try to play it in my dorm. Or maybe it’s because my roommate hates my singing.”
Rachel looked thoughtful. “You know, there’s an open mic at Birdy’s. You could sign up, get some audience feedback.”
“Oh yeah?” said Stu, vaguely embarrassed by the parental tone of her encouragement. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
“You should. Put things out there.” The front door opened as more people arrived, and Rachel shivered in the draft. “And how do you like Lansdowne so far?”
“It’s great,” he said, after a pause, struggling to sort out his impressions. “Really different…from high school.” As soon as the words came out, he regretted them. Everything he said was stupid.
Her eyes were sympathetic and a bit glassy. “It’s actually my first semester here, too. I’ve only been here a month.”
“You’re lying to the boy,” said a voice behind her. “It’s been five weeks.” A tall blond man with a chiselled jaw and the approximate physique of a Greek god ambled up and girded her shoulders with a possessive arm. Rachel only came up to his armpit. Next to him, she suddenly seemed ordinary, a mere human.
“Okay, five weeks,” she said with a laugh. “I was lucky I could bring someone with me. Stu, this is my husband, Owen. He’s Lansdowne’s Distinguished Visiting Writer this year.”
The Greek god shook his hand. “Owen Grant.”
Stu nodded, embarrassed into silence, unsure if he was expected to say hello or, like Owen, simply repeat his own name. Another professor approached and Stu slipped away and got himself another beer. He wanted to pound them back until he’d expunged the whole end of the conversation from his memory.
Several beers later, Stu wandered past the living room, where the general party din was lowered to the level of quiet discussion. Owen was holding forth from the arm of the couch, as a group of students listened, seemingly rapt. Stu lingered in the doorway, self-conscious until he realized no one was watching him. Then he made his way over to an empty spot beside the writer. He noticed his ethics professor, Gretchen Howe, sitting in the wingback chair opposite, dispensing advice to two young women. The heavy-framed turquoise eyeglasses by which he usually recognized her were pushed up atop her mass of caustic red hair. After a minute, Sarah plopped down in between him and Owen.
“Hi,” said Stu.
“Oh, hi.” Sarah bumped into his shoulder then slid over, out of the dip of the couch. “Oops. Having fun?”
“Yeah, not bad,” said Stu. “Though I don’t really know anyone.” But Sarah had already switched tracks, her focus trained on Owen.
“After all, wisdom is an aphrodisiac,” the writer was saying. He turned to include Sarah in his address, as well as the people looking over from the next room. “And the transmission of knowledge is an erotic act.” The book-lined walls felt close, almost stifling, while Owen seemed larger than life, magnified by the admiring gazes of Sarah and the other young women. “Even if it’s not physical, it can be incredibly intimate,” said the writer, capping the remark with a half-shrug. “Inconvenient but true.”
“Come now,” called Professor Howe from across the room. Her voice was sharp. “Let’s not get into all this here.”
Owen waved her off. It was obvious in that moment that he held sway in the room. “I’m sure you’ve felt it, too, Gretchen. What about