better knowing this. I have never been one to worry, or to feel emotionally weak for that matter, but I guess I just had a hard time wondering where her mind was, where I stood in her life, and if she was playing me as she played with someone else on the East Coast.
I turned back to the paper I was reading and tried to focus on it. I’d taken on some history classes for the next semester, and I needed to be prepared. I’d already lost two weeks over the summer, and now I had some catching up to do. No matter how hard I tried to focus on it, though, that voice in the back of my head kept asking me what I thought Izzy was doing, and when she would call. I guess the bottom line was that I still harbored trust issues when it came to Izzy, and after that phone call she received while we were having breakfast a few days ago, I felt she was seeing someone as well.
I decided to call her later in the evening, after dinnertime to check on her, figuring with a three-hour time difference, she’d have to be home. Knowing that I would talk to her later helped to shut that nagging voice up, if only for a while.
***
I saw Marcus later that night – as I’d known I would – and it was just as wonderful as I’d hoped it would be. Marcus was a Philosophy professor at the university, and I’d had a class with him the year before. He was a relatively young professor, by all accounts, in his late 20s, having earned his PhD just two years prior. He had the stereotypical handsome professor profile with dark, unruly hair, glasses that he only wore when he read, and the serious face of an academic. He had the body of an athlete, though, and towered over most of the students in class.
On the first day of Philosophy class, he’d looked around, laughed, and launched into a story about his own first day of college, and what a mess he’d made of it. He’d gone on to tell us that we were going to be studying a lot of dead men and women who had changed the world after they ceased to exist by founding new ideas and theories, and that – if we were lucky – we’d learn a little bit about our own personal philosophies ourselves.
I developed a crush on him immediately.
It had taken me slightly longer to start talking to him, though, and our relationship had grown when I asked him to be my thesis advisor. Philosophy wasn’t my major, and it certainly wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life, but the good thing about an English major (which I was) and a publishing career (which I thought I wanted) was that I could have an advisor in any of the fine arts. Fortunately, Philosophy qualified as a fine art.
On the day we submitted our midterms, I’d gone to him and asked him to be my academic advisor. The position didn’t call for much – he would look at drafts of my thesis, which I was to begin working on during the second semester of my sophomore year, and give me guidance in regard to where to go next. In truth, I didn’t think I actually needed an advisor. I’d always known what I was doing and where I was going, and I didn’t really like other people hanging over my shoulder, trying to tell me how to write or structure essays or papers. But it was a requirement for the honors program I was enrolled in.
And it gave me an excellent chance to get to know Professor Wellings better.
Of course that had been midway through the second semester of my freshman year, so I’d only had ten weeks left on the East Coast, and a lot of that was taken up with writing papers and studying for finals. I’d visited his office during office hours once or twice to get paperwork filled out, and to chat about what I was going to focus on for my thesis, but it hadn’t gone much farther than that.
In class, it was a completely different story. I’d spend the class hour staring at him, dreaming of what it would be like to touch him, run my fingers through his hair, or feel his hands on my body. This had shocked me, in and of itself, since I
I turned back to the paper I was reading and tried to focus on it. I’d taken on some history classes for the next semester, and I needed to be prepared. I’d already lost two weeks over the summer, and now I had some catching up to do. No matter how hard I tried to focus on it, though, that voice in the back of my head kept asking me what I thought Izzy was doing, and when she would call. I guess the bottom line was that I still harbored trust issues when it came to Izzy, and after that phone call she received while we were having breakfast a few days ago, I felt she was seeing someone as well.
I decided to call her later in the evening, after dinnertime to check on her, figuring with a three-hour time difference, she’d have to be home. Knowing that I would talk to her later helped to shut that nagging voice up, if only for a while.
***
I saw Marcus later that night – as I’d known I would – and it was just as wonderful as I’d hoped it would be. Marcus was a Philosophy professor at the university, and I’d had a class with him the year before. He was a relatively young professor, by all accounts, in his late 20s, having earned his PhD just two years prior. He had the stereotypical handsome professor profile with dark, unruly hair, glasses that he only wore when he read, and the serious face of an academic. He had the body of an athlete, though, and towered over most of the students in class.
On the first day of Philosophy class, he’d looked around, laughed, and launched into a story about his own first day of college, and what a mess he’d made of it. He’d gone on to tell us that we were going to be studying a lot of dead men and women who had changed the world after they ceased to exist by founding new ideas and theories, and that – if we were lucky – we’d learn a little bit about our own personal philosophies ourselves.
I developed a crush on him immediately.
It had taken me slightly longer to start talking to him, though, and our relationship had grown when I asked him to be my thesis advisor. Philosophy wasn’t my major, and it certainly wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life, but the good thing about an English major (which I was) and a publishing career (which I thought I wanted) was that I could have an advisor in any of the fine arts. Fortunately, Philosophy qualified as a fine art.
On the day we submitted our midterms, I’d gone to him and asked him to be my academic advisor. The position didn’t call for much – he would look at drafts of my thesis, which I was to begin working on during the second semester of my sophomore year, and give me guidance in regard to where to go next. In truth, I didn’t think I actually needed an advisor. I’d always known what I was doing and where I was going, and I didn’t really like other people hanging over my shoulder, trying to tell me how to write or structure essays or papers. But it was a requirement for the honors program I was enrolled in.
And it gave me an excellent chance to get to know Professor Wellings better.
Of course that had been midway through the second semester of my freshman year, so I’d only had ten weeks left on the East Coast, and a lot of that was taken up with writing papers and studying for finals. I’d visited his office during office hours once or twice to get paperwork filled out, and to chat about what I was going to focus on for my thesis, but it hadn’t gone much farther than that.
In class, it was a completely different story. I’d spend the class hour staring at him, dreaming of what it would be like to touch him, run my fingers through his hair, or feel his hands on my body. This had shocked me, in and of itself, since I
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