Part VI: Scars are Words Too
“It’s after hours, what do you want?”
“I was invited! Open the door please.”
“Invited by who?”
“Arlene, room 312, she shares with Maddy.”
“And what do you want with Arlene?”
“I don’t know, she invited me!”
The door buzzed. Adam went up marble steps to a desk. Behind it was a short woman with a flattened nose. “Thank you. Can you open the next door?”
The woman picked up a phone. “Hello, front desk, Eleanor speaking. Is Arlene expecting a visitor? Ah, I see. That’s good to know.” She hung up.
The woman stood up. Her bottom lip hid under the counter until she stepped onto a stool. “She’s not expecting you.”
“You’re a dwarf!” observed Adam.
“I’m two inches over dwarf. Now be on your way, Arlene’s not waiting. She’s not even in her room.”
“Impossible! She just called me…”
“You’re a new professor, aren’t you? Professor Ritten. Young for a professor.”
“How do you know who I am? Yes I’m Professor Ritten…”
“Dating undergrads is not a good policy, Professor.”
“And why should I take advice from a desk attendant, a dwarfish one at that?”
Eleanor pulled down her cleavage enough to show the little scar that snuggled between her breasts. “Pacemaker scar. It gets better the lower you go.”
“Are you a virgin? I’ve never heard of a Professor Virgin.”
“I’m not the one fucking a student.”
“Well maybe you should, looks like you could do with a good toss.”
“I told you, I’m not a dwarf. And dwarf tossing comments are rude. Why don’t you come around here and let me do a wrap-around for you while I stick my thumb in your ass. You can stay at the window and pretend you’re the attendant in case anyone comes in. They won’t even see me…”
“Sick… That’s sick! You’re a sick little imp!”
“I can get you off in twelve strokes. Soft ones, too. Guaranteed to have you bashing in the back end of a tissue box.”
Adam paused. “What?”
The phone rang. “It’s Arlene,” said Eleanor, punching the buzzer. “You can go up now.”
“What’s that thing about the twelve strokes? And the tissue box?”
“You better hurry, door locks again in a couple of seconds.”
Adam stared at the black and yellow dress of flowers that covered Eleanor. She was wearing a wig, a black one, but some of the blond hair underneath was showing. He looked at the door. He fled.
Eleanor opened a fashion magazine and stared at the pamphlet she had concealed within the pages. It showed a picture of an extraterrestrial fornicating with a mathematical equation, all those sticky numbers and letters with Eleanor floating between the digits until they formed up into long ranks of symbols-become-words that rested in a place two blue-shifts to the right of anything truly profane.