The Sharp Hook of Love by Sherry Jones Page B

particulars.”
    â€œI cannot believe you have read my Dialectica. ” He gazed at me as fondly as if he were a proud papa, and I his child who had performed some difficult feat.
    â€œAnd the classifications we give to things, you wrote, are mere words.”
    â€œMy dear girl! Dialectic is not too abstract for your grasp at all.” He reached for the stylus, pressing his knee against mine.
    â€œBut, master,” I said, glancing away lest he detect the gleam of triumph in my eyes, “what of love?”
    â€œAs I said, a universal ‘love’ does not exist. Love comes in many forms.”
    â€œBut are there truly different types of love, or do humans merely perceive them to differ?”
    â€œThey differ. It is a matter on which everyone can agree.”
    â€œEveryone, master? Are we all the same then, knowing the same things, feeling the same love, sharing the same ‘world soul’ as Plato described?”
    He leapt to his feet and raked his fingers through his hair. “If you have read my work, then you know that the ‘world soul’ is a fallacy. Men do not share the same soul; we are not the same ‘in essence.’ ”
    â€œIf each man and woman is unique, doesn’t it follow that each of us loves uniquely?”
    â€œOf course we experience love differently—in all its forms.”
    â€œAnd so isn’t it possible that I could feel caritas , that beautiful, spiritual, unconditional love, not only for God but also for my beloved? Isn’t that what Christ wanted from us—to enact caritas on Earth as he did, transforming God’s love into love for our fellow men?”
    Abelard’s expression changed. He resumed his seat and reached over to touch my hand. My body’s taut string plucked, I quivered and hummed.
    â€œHeloise, you astonish me. Your mind—dear God! I can scarcely believe that you are—” He stopped, his face reddening.
    â€œThat I am a woman?” I rolled my eyes. “Given your propensity for insulting me, I can scarcely believe that you are a poet who makes women swoon.”
    â€œShall I speak of your beauty instead of your mind?” He winked.
    â€œIt matters not to me whether you think me beautiful of face or form—”
    â€œBut I do think so.” He slid his knees forward to press them against my thigh and touched my cheek with his fingertip.
    â€œDo not flatter me.” Suddenly short of breath, I could barely utter the words. I turned my head away from his touch, my eyes away from his gaze. “I consider only my soul of any importance, for that is what God sees.”
    â€œBut he has given me eyes with which to behold your own eyes, as black and luminous as the water at night, and your lush, red mouth.” His lowered lids, the softening of his mouth as it approached mine, made me leap from my seat and turn toward the open window, away from him. The stars, so near that it seemed I could touch them, shifted and wheeled in my dizzy sights. My heart beat so wildly that I cupped it with my hands, thinking it might fly away. I crossed my arms to cradle myself, trying to quell my blood’s stirring, and heard the scrape of Abelard’s chair on the floor. Then he stood behind me and stroked the backs of my arms.
    I whirled around. “Master—”
    â€œCall me Abelard,” he murmured, moving his hands to my waist. “It is the name my scholars use—and many of my friends.”
    â€œAre we friends?” I said weakly, taking one step backward but no more, standing so close to the window’s edge.
    â€œWe shall be the best of friends. How can it be otherwise? Who else, besides me, possesses a mind like yours? What otherwoman besides you approaches me in subtlety of thought and in sheer intellectual power?”
    His modesty never failed to astound me, I wanted to retort—but I could hardly hear myself think over my pulse’s throb.