Tart by Jody Gehrman

old woman feeding pigeons half your jam sandwich and rambling on to yourself about the time you got the Teacher of the Year award.
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    TO: Claudia Bloom
    FROM: Ziv Ackerman
    SUBJECT: Oh Yeah.
    Bloomie, my darling, I just have to tell you: roomie’s name is Attila. I’m not kidding. He’s hilarious, in a very deadpan, slightly stupid way, and you know I hate people who are smarter than me (present company excepted) so we get along swimmingly. When he tells people he’s from Transylvania, and they respond with the inevitable Texan vampire cracks, he reassures them solemnly that the people of his country only drink the blood of animals, not humans, and only occasionally, for health reasons. The funny part is, he’s not kidding. It’s a good thing you took Medea with you.
    So it’s working out quite well, so far. Of course, you know that you’re the princess of all roommates and that a hundred thousand Jude Law look-alikes could never replace you in a million years.
    How about you? How’s this married sex machine you so alluringly alluded to? And murderous wife? Sounds very cozy. And please, write immediately to clarify about the yurt. The OED said something about nomadic tribes of Mongolia. Surely you haven’t taken up with a married nomadic Mongolian, have you?
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    â€œWant to get a bite to eat?” I look up and see Mare leaning against the doorway. She’s wearing her usual threadbare leotard and wide-legged cotton sweats. I don’t know how dancers manage to make such ratty old things look so sexy. Ever since Flashdance I’ve longed for that sort of grace, but on me it all looks insufferably frumpy.
    â€œI’d love to,” I say, springing up from my chair. “I’m famished.”
    Well, what? I can’t starve myself, can I? Westby’s hateful e-mail will still be here when I get back; if she is firing me, I may not have an appetite for days, so it’s essential that I fuel up on carbs now.
    As we’re walking the tree-lined trail to Porter College, I let the beauty of the afternoon take my mind off my imminent unemployment for a few minutes. UC Santa Cruz has a campus that inspires dreamy forgetfulness. It’s huge, nestled at the top of a hill, and most of it’s wild. There are acres of redwoods, wispy eucalyptus groves, yawning meadows of summer-blond grass where the hippies had legendary nude picnics “back in the day.” There are amazing views of the ocean at every turn—vistas that make you catch your breath and shake your head. We round the corner and are confronted with an in-your-face panorama of the Pacific. It’s like a Monet: a million dots, variations of blue, green, gray and white. A cluster of darkish rain clouds is moving our way, dragging a voluptuous shadow across the water.
    Inspired by a quick, bracing wind on my face, I take a deep breath and study Mare’s profile. “Suppose you got an e-mail from Westby with the heading ‘Evaluating Your Teaching’…what’d be your first reaction?”
    â€œExhaustion. I hate those things. After you get tenure, you only have to do it like every six years or something, but in the beginning they put you through the wringer.”
    â€œSo it’s like…standard procedure?”
    â€œOh, yeah, of course.” She laughs. “Claudia, you look like I renounced the death sentence. Haven’t you ever been through it before?”
    â€œNo. I never taught before I came here,” I say, feeling a bit shy.
    â€œThat’s right. I keep forgetting. You seem like such a natural. Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure your students love you.”
    We order sandwiches at the Hungry Slug Café and look around for a table. As we survey the room, I recognize the woman I doused with coffee the first day; she’s sitting with the Costume Design professor, Esther Small. I’ve got very few names memorized at this