'Yes'

                                                      ‘Yes’
                                               
                                                By Jason Muller


Let me tell you about the day she said ‘Yes’.
          I still think about it with a longing smile.  Not a smile of sarcastic glee; certainly not one of obsession—never obsession.  It all began on the first day of the spring semester, a time of year when crepe myrtles are in bloom and their white flowers, thin and delicate, sprinkle the ground with snow-like petals.  But before I continue there is something I must clarify in terms of her three-letter reply: I honestly believe that she was insincere when she said it, yet at the time it was enough to pacify my untamed hunger.  I learned much about myself in the days which I am about to share with you, one being that I’m very sensitive to the things I desire, notably Rebecca Swan. My name is Ernie Dubois, and the following events pertain to the day she said ‘Yes’.

Sunlight sluiced through the windows and spilled upon the lectern; it fingered the tiny crevices in the checkered, tile floor.  And there I was, a mere stranger amongst my college peers, sitting in a desk in back of the class, an advanced grammar and usage course that I’d scheduled over the winter.  I looked up from my Jack Ketchum novel to glimpse the clock above the chalkboard: 10:00 a.m.  I had no idea that my life was about to forever change.  And then it happened:  She walked into the room and radiated splendor.  I looked up into her magical eyes and my world stopped spinning and my heart went ablaze with awe, for never before had my eyes fallen upon a sight of such rich and remarkable beauty.  Just like that—it had begun. 

Her demeanor was brisk and confident, unlike any other exhibited by my previous professors, whom had always lagged about with sulking faces and withered features. This woman—oh, how refreshing she was—this woman was the embodiment of unadulterated beauty, and I have no shame in admitting that I was immediately…involuntarily drawn to her. Her smooth Latin complexion was like succulent mocha.  Her dark hair, cropped and parted down the middle, floated atop her shoulders and seemed to gleam in the shafts of morning sunlight.  When she introduced herself as Ms. Rebecca Swan, a new faculty member,  I was pleased to hear the inflection in her voice when she said “Ms.” To further confirm her unmarried status, I glanced at her left hand—fine fingernails painted crimson—and noticed no ring binding her to someone else.  I knew right then that I would one day ask for that hand. What I did not know, however, was that I would develop a deep lust for my professor, and in some ways the taboo of it all magnified my desire. Feeling a bit inadequate to deserve her company, I wanted to improve my physique to enhance my marketability.  That afternoon, I wasted no time in going to a local Goodwill to purchase a used weight bench that I’d seen some weeks ago while shopping for clothes and a matching set of placemats. 

Each passing day was a day deeper into my obsession. Each class period was enchanting though extraordinarily quick, as if I’d been lured into another dimension where time existed not. Rarely did I pay attention to her lectures, for her voice produced a hypnotic charm which cradled my attention and drew my eyes deeper and deeper into its effect.  I’d often focus my gaze on the edge of her full lips as they flexed and formed words slowly and slower still, until everyone and everything around me became transparent save for Rebecca—my Rebecca. And many times our eyes would meet and her smile would stretch a bit wider for me; just wide enough to convey our mutual attraction.  Though now I cannot be so sure.

But in fact, there is something I must tell you about myself, and I will be forthright.  Much to my disadvantage, I possess a degree of shyness so chronic that I am rendered unsociable, and my speech is plagued with stuttering so severe that my words become tangled and unfit for conversation. These faults are not by choice, I say, but are the faults of the order in which my genes are aligned.  Alas! Damn my timidity, for it grounded me, thus preventing me from approaching Rebecca to discuss a life beyond the classroom.  Equally tormenting were the weekends; they were insufferable. Each weekend that passed without her soothing voice and surreal presence was a hiatus from my growing lust, yet my lust grew in tandem with these unfortunate days, which, unlike the classroom, endured a slowing of the clock.  And I yearned for her and yearned more. But still, every morning and night, I would stand before my bedroom mirror and work my biceps quickly and crazily to Depeche Mode’s Greatest Hits. I loved watching my veins pump and contract until at last they were sore and swollen.  I went online to collect tips from professional bodybuilders to expedite my muscular growth. After only a few weeks of strenuous weight-training, my body grew leaner and stronger. I was pleased when I could bench 115lbs.

Occasionally, Rebecca would hand out homework assignments and I would sit eagerly at my desk, tacitly urging the row of students sitting before me to pass my sheets, for the paper, on which was printed an array of grammatical exercises, was laden with the sweet pungency of her perfume.  While at home I’d sit with these papers in my lap, smelling each one with gusto, until at last the scent wore off and existed no more.  More and increasingly more I needed her close and within my immediate company.  I felt compelled to approach her and bravely profess my love for her, despite the chance of derision or rejection. But rejection… Ah, how can a fool in love embrace rejection?  I wondered endlessly, much to the neglect of my other studies, how I might arrange a tryst with Rebecca, so that I might tell her of my true feelings. I began to think, with relentless effort, of several possibilities to communicate effectively, all of them to my dislike.  But I tried anyway—oh, how I tried. While alone—hah, alone; I suffer unending isolation—I’d practice my speech, but often my tongue became twisted and strained after reciting only two or three inarticulate words.  I stammered.  I clucked.  I focused my energy at the apex of speaking clearly, but even my adamant love for Rebecca could not verbally evoke the words I needed.  At night I’d quell my desire for companionship with liquor. Though at the bottom of each bottle was only the amplified desire for Rebecca, swimming in liquid remnants of cheap brandy; however, unbeknownst to me at the time—the day when she’d say ‘Yes’ was just around the corner.

As the semester progressed, my desire transgressed the slopes of what some might deem maniacal love. Daily I would sit through class trying in vain to cultivate the courage to ask for her hand.  Sometimes I would experience a strange and nervous thumping of my heart that, but there was never enough courage to bring my vision to fruition.  It was on such a day, after class, that I walked through the halls of the English department, letting my fingertips brush along the mortar joints on the wall, thinking myself a coward, feeling as though I were a General who’d abandoned his army in a battlefield without honor.  And then came salt upon the wound.  In the midst of my displeasure, I went to the restroom to splash water on my face. When I stepped out of the lavatory I saw a man standing down the hall, twenty or so feet away, his elbow perched against the threshold of Rebecca’s office door; a stack of textbooks were cradled in his hand.  I recognized him immediately as being Michael Crider, an English Lit professor whom I’d studied under a few semesters back. And standing before him—dear, me—standing before him was my dear Rebecca, gazing up into his eyes with a girlish grin, a nervous awestruck grin, like I’d imagined myself to resemble while admiring her in class.  I approached their conversation with caution, soon coming close enough to recognize the exchange. I feigned interest in a flyer pinned to a nearby bulletin board. This is what I heard:
         She said, “Yes, Michael, I am free Saturday night.  Where’s a good place to go?  What did you have in mind?”
         His body was thin though flabby and his belly protruded a little. His physique was nowhere near the quality of mine.  I cringed when he began speaking to my Rebecca.
          “I seriously doubt that any place could accommodate a woman as lovely as you, Rebecca,” he said, “but I suppose that I can at least try and dazzle you with some of my more delectable Mediterranean dishes.  I am, after all, a decent cook.”
         “I had no idea you were your own chef.  I would’ve never thought.”
         “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true,” he said grinning impishly…a conniving grin which gripped my chest with merciless claws.
         I couldn’t listen to this heresy any longer. An acrid taste began biting the back of my throat, and suddenly I felt my forehead grow warm.  I turned away, dashed back inside the restroom, and vomited in the sink. I rinsed my mouth with water and regarded myself in the mirror.  There was something unfamiliar about my countenance.  My pupils seemed inflamed and darker than usual. My cheeks were pale and possessed an overall clammy sheen. Rebecca had betrayed me.  She’d betrayed my loyalty and commitment. I felt dizzy and thought it best to go home and rest. By the time I returned to the hallway, Rebecca and Michael—the weak fool—had gone.

The next day was hell upon my mind. I envied the ease with which other students could go up and ask Rebecca questions related to their coursework or otherwise—this was a simple luxury for which I longed.  I’ve been known by some to possess a strong desire to socialize; even it comes at the expense of my reputation, which, if it were a sporting event, might be scored as:
                                    SOCIABLITY: 0      CREEP: 20
         Now imagine this the final score of a professional soccer match and you might better understand the public’s perception of my character.  Nevertheless, I swear to you that I am not mad.  No—certainly not mad.  Madness is defined by an acute mental illness, and I hardly consider love of this magnitude to be any such thing, though I suppose that love itself is a species which may indict one on counts of insanity.

Oh, but if only I could have a life with her; if only I could be the one to lie beside her and feel her warm body against mine.  These were the sentiments of my waking thoughts. And sometimes, in the clutches of sleep, I’d see her image dancing amid a golden dawn, loping amid fields of clover glazed with morning frost. In these dreams I would indulge in optical wonder as her pendulous breast bounced and sloshed in the foreground of green nature.  What a desirable specimen, she is—my Rebecca. How could such beauty even be reconciled? And most of all, how could I remain upset with her for her infidelity? I figured these things were expected with a woman as exquisite as her. Yet still I needed to devise a way to tell her how I felt about us. Sure, a letter might prove efficient, but that would require too many words and uncomfortable exchanges. Like Andre Porter—my boss over at Plumb Dry Inc.—always says: ‘The more joints in your plumbing means more chances of a leak.’ I was searching for a more concise means of communication.

But what to do?  What to say?  How to say it? This latter obstacle was, of course, the most difficult, despite my seemingly unruly lust for Ms. Rebecca—my Rebecca. Thinking about these issues had become my daily ritual while in bed, and I would allow these reflections to lead me into sleep, where they would seethe and incubate in the delicate hands of my subconscious.  And then, as I lay between sleep and consciousness, a wonderful idea arose in my mind.  I awoke in the night grinning, rubbing my head stupidly at how simple yet brilliant the answer was. I could hardly believe that I’d devised away to tell her of my feelings and the torment of my desire. Though it was only four in the morning, I threw back the bed sheets and rolled out of bed. Then I showered and dressed and, after taking my medication, prepared a special note card accentuated with red, foil-stamped roses curling up at the top corners—I’d bought the cards at Goodwill.  I even dappled some of my best cologne on back of the card to add a particular sensation that I was certain Ms. Rebecca would enjoy.  I then sat at my kitchen table with the foil-stamped card and wrote, in blue ink, the question that had awakened me.  And then I waited, holding the card as dawn pierced my windows, imagining the look on Rebecca’s face after she read it. My neighbor grows yellow roses, and I snatched one from her garden. As I write this, I ponder about the future and what it holds for me and my Rebecca.

When I strolled confidently into class and down the aisle to my seat, all eyes were upon me.  My peers regarded me curiously not only because I was holding a yellow rose but because I was wearing a long-sleeve collared shirt—fuchsia—and a stylish pair of black slacks and black loafers.  I’d even tried a particular hairdo—a part down the middle and slicked back with gel. I don’t believe Rebecca prefers this hairstyle, however, for she hasn’t responded to my letters subsequent to the day she said ‘Yes’.  Nevertheless, I don’t believe it was my hair or my attire which repelled her. I rather believe it was the note itself.

I glanced nervously at the clock and then a Rebecca, overly-conscious of her every move. Her eye contact seemed more frequent than usual, and as always I would simply return a thin smile.  Although her body looked magnificent and desirable as always, I tried to sway my eyes from these indulgencies so that I could think and prepare myself for my encounter soon to come. The clock sped by probably faster since I was lost in the throes of extreme, nervous behavior—I was not so sure that I could verbally communicate with her. But that is why I had the note.  Ah, the life-saving note—a written means of communication. I felt safe and sure that I could overcome my inadequacies. At last the class ended and students began to trickle out of the classroom.  One student—a young woman with freckles—lingered behind to ask Rebecca some trivial question concerning predicates and independent clauses. I waited with arms crossed, mentally rehearsing my approach.  At last the freckled girl stepped away and out of the room, leaving only Rebecca and myself alone and together.  I was paralyzed with fright when her dark Latin eyes met mine.
         “Ernie,” she said kindly. “Did you have a question, for me?”
         If she only knew.
         Nevertheless, I managed to initiate a step forward and my knees were like the tin man’s just after being oiled; only I had a heart and could hear it thumping wildly in my ears. One step… another…and another.
         I approached her trembling, and without a word handed her the flower. Her face turned to magical surprise.
         “For me?” she said, accepting the flower with tentative grace. 
         I nodded, slowly extended my other arm, and handed her the card on which I had written:
         
         Ms. Rebecca,

         Could you please tell me if the following sentence is grammatically correct?

                                            Will you marry me?


And Rebecca Swan, beautiful as ever, looked up into my eyes without the slightest hesitation and said: “Why, yes.”



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