reason I typically avoided this place on the weekends during the school year. Besides the alcohol angle, I'm sure a few co-ed women came to Peggy's either to experiment with their sexuality or to go slumming – to see Real Life Lesbians in their natural habitat.
I knew I should probably leave. I didn’t care if students knew I was gay – I didn’t hide my sexuality – but I didn’t like putting myself in situations where I might possibly observe an underage student drinking alcohol. I gave serious consideration to leaving, but I still had a full beer, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being curious as to which of those categories my former student belonged. Was she gay? Or was she just here to dance?
I thought about texting Troian to tell her about this recent development, but I knew she'd interrupt her date night with Nikole to message me back. I didn't want to do that to either of them, so I resisted the urge to reach for my phone.
I intended to spin back around and finish my beer, not willing to let myself become a gawking voyeur. But just as I'd made that decision, from across the bar, grey-blue eyes caught my own. I was sitting too far away to decipher a specific emotion if it passed across her visage – shock, confusion, embarrassment, or something else altogether. But I did observe her grab the attention of the girl dancing closest to her, and then she started to maneuver
off the dance floor and walk directly toward me.
As I watched her weave through the crowded bar and steadily eliminate the distance between us, I felt a little like a deer in headlights. This can't end well , my brain warned me. Shut up, brain , I tossed back.
Her cheeks were flushed and a peculiar smile had found its way t o her face. “Professor Graft?” Her voice was nervous, but not necessarily confused. It made me wonder if my sexuality was public knowledge among the small student body.
“ How are you, Hunter?” I managed to stumble out. I self-consciously put my glass of beer on the bar top.
“I’m good,” she said, routinely falling into polite small talk. This was safe territory. “And you?”
“Good, good,” I returned. I bit down on my lower lip. I didn’t know what to say. In the classroom, in my faculty office, or even in an off-campus coffee shop, I could muster up the courage for casual conversation. But not at a gay bar.
“Do you dance?” she asked.
I couldn’t tell if she was asking me to dance with her or if she was just making conversation. I didn’t want to read too much into it.
“Not when anyone’s looking.”
She glanced wistfully out at the dance floor. “Me either.” Normally the space went unused, but on nights when they bothered to hire a DJ it always seemed to fill up. “But I’m here with some friends, and they dragged me out there.”
I cleared my throat and shifted on my bar seat. “Well, don’t let me keep you from them.”
She shrugged, fine boney shoulders visible beneath her tank top. It was a far cry from the blue puffy winter jacket. “I’m not really in the dancing kind of mood anymore. It’s so hard to just be ‘on’ all the time, you know?”
I nodded in understanding. After marking up so many papers that day, I’d felt emotionally and mentally exhausted. It was a wonder I had managed to drag myself here tonight, but I hadn’t felt like being in an empty house all day.
She cast a furtive glance in my direction. “How about you? What brings you here tonight?”
“I was trying to drown my sorrows,” I explained, looking down into the bottom of my glass, “but my sorrows learned to swim.”
She leaned against the bar top, perceptively closer. “So not only do you teach English,” she said, quirking an elegant eyebrow, “but you’re also a poet?”
I shook my head. “I’m a writer.” As if there was a world of difference. I’d paraphrased Frida Kahlo, but I didn’t bother to explain
I knew I should probably leave. I didn’t care if students knew I was gay – I didn’t hide my sexuality – but I didn’t like putting myself in situations where I might possibly observe an underage student drinking alcohol. I gave serious consideration to leaving, but I still had a full beer, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being curious as to which of those categories my former student belonged. Was she gay? Or was she just here to dance?
I thought about texting Troian to tell her about this recent development, but I knew she'd interrupt her date night with Nikole to message me back. I didn't want to do that to either of them, so I resisted the urge to reach for my phone.
I intended to spin back around and finish my beer, not willing to let myself become a gawking voyeur. But just as I'd made that decision, from across the bar, grey-blue eyes caught my own. I was sitting too far away to decipher a specific emotion if it passed across her visage – shock, confusion, embarrassment, or something else altogether. But I did observe her grab the attention of the girl dancing closest to her, and then she started to maneuver
off the dance floor and walk directly toward me.
As I watched her weave through the crowded bar and steadily eliminate the distance between us, I felt a little like a deer in headlights. This can't end well , my brain warned me. Shut up, brain , I tossed back.
Her cheeks were flushed and a peculiar smile had found its way t o her face. “Professor Graft?” Her voice was nervous, but not necessarily confused. It made me wonder if my sexuality was public knowledge among the small student body.
“ How are you, Hunter?” I managed to stumble out. I self-consciously put my glass of beer on the bar top.
“I’m good,” she said, routinely falling into polite small talk. This was safe territory. “And you?”
“Good, good,” I returned. I bit down on my lower lip. I didn’t know what to say. In the classroom, in my faculty office, or even in an off-campus coffee shop, I could muster up the courage for casual conversation. But not at a gay bar.
“Do you dance?” she asked.
I couldn’t tell if she was asking me to dance with her or if she was just making conversation. I didn’t want to read too much into it.
“Not when anyone’s looking.”
She glanced wistfully out at the dance floor. “Me either.” Normally the space went unused, but on nights when they bothered to hire a DJ it always seemed to fill up. “But I’m here with some friends, and they dragged me out there.”
I cleared my throat and shifted on my bar seat. “Well, don’t let me keep you from them.”
She shrugged, fine boney shoulders visible beneath her tank top. It was a far cry from the blue puffy winter jacket. “I’m not really in the dancing kind of mood anymore. It’s so hard to just be ‘on’ all the time, you know?”
I nodded in understanding. After marking up so many papers that day, I’d felt emotionally and mentally exhausted. It was a wonder I had managed to drag myself here tonight, but I hadn’t felt like being in an empty house all day.
She cast a furtive glance in my direction. “How about you? What brings you here tonight?”
“I was trying to drown my sorrows,” I explained, looking down into the bottom of my glass, “but my sorrows learned to swim.”
She leaned against the bar top, perceptively closer. “So not only do you teach English,” she said, quirking an elegant eyebrow, “but you’re also a poet?”
I shook my head. “I’m a writer.” As if there was a world of difference. I’d paraphrased Frida Kahlo, but I didn’t bother to explain
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