Page 37 of Crystal Iris #1

Thirty

“For me, art history is like a feather bed—you fall into it and it catches you.” – David Salle

I feel like a ballerina inside a music box.

How did I ever live in a place so small?

I almost feel claustrophobic now, after being in Hoyt’s enormous house and spending time in the open fields.

The view from my windows is gray—tall buildings everywhere I look.

And below, traffic. Even with my choice of street, just a few blocks from the river, I already miss the nature, the mountains. .. him.

I text Hoyt before leaving the house: I’m pretty sure my apartment shrunk.

I might not enjoy the view from my place, but the beautiful campus welcomes me with open arms.

“Good morning,” I say to Akira, handing her a cup of coffee.

“Hey, thank you!” She gives me a hug, taking the cup.

“I missed you. A lot has happened since I last saw you.”

“How’s Johanna doing?”

“She’s good. Hoyt said Sawyer has taken the nurse job personally. ”

“Oh good. Are you ready?” she asks as we walk.

“You know, first days… they suck.”

“What are you talking about? I love their scared faces. I wish I could take a photo of them, looking at me, trying to figure me out.”

I laugh. “I forgot, you don’t do anything that isn’t fun.”

She winks, or attempts to.

My classroom for HAA 233G – The Body and Embodiment in Greek Art has twenty students awaiting me when I open the door.

All of them are on their phones. I can’t blame them—I have mine in my hand too.

Hoyt had replied to my earlier text: All you city people living like rats in a lab, no idea how you do it.

I see what you’re doing, I text back, getting an instant smiley face in reply.

I spend the lesson describing the marble sculpture of Laocoon and His Sons , one of the most influential ancient artworks in art history.

“Where is it now?” Marissa asks.

“In the Vatican,” I answer.

“Are these snakes?” asks a girl whose name I’ve already forgotten.

“Sea serpents. They’re killing him. See the one biting Laocoon on the hip?”

“What’s with his eyes?” Nick asks as he writes something down.

“Some say the bites made him blind. The exaggerated realism is similar to the Hellenistic baroque style, popular during the Roman Imperial period.”

“Isn’t Laocoon part of the Trojan War?” Marissa asks.

“I don’t remember him being mentioned in Homer’s work,” James says. I can’t help but notice how handsome he is. Leather jacket draped over the back of the chair, both arms covered in tattoos, he is hot.

I tell myself it’s okay to say that, to see that—that’s all this is, an observation, even if it feels a little messed up to objectify a student. He had also surprised me with his answer. Even for a Harvard art history major, some books are only read if the professors grade them on it.

“No, he isn’t mentioned in the Odyssey or the Iliad. Even so, Laocoon is linked to the fall of Troy. The story says it was Athena and Poseidon, who were favoring the Greeks, who sent the sea serpents to kill him. It was a punishment for alerting the Trojans about the wooden horse.”

I’m relieved to have my first day back behind me.

I’ve debated going there all summer—not only because of guilt but also because a part of me will always care for him. I’m done weighing the pros and cons. By the time I arrive, I’ve rehearsed the conversation enough times to feel confident it could go well.

“Iris?” Aaron says, surprised, when he opens the door. He looks better than I expected, though still not close to the Aaron I knew. The apartment seems to have been cleaned up.

“Can I come in?” I ask, and he steps aside.

“You look well,” he says, looking at me.

“So do you.” Only I regret saying it right away; he knows I’m lying.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

“I’m all right, thank you.”

He pours me one anyway. I hesitate before taking a sip.

“For fuck’s sake, Iris, it’s not poisoned.”

I let the whiskey calm my nerves; maybe I do need it.

“Did you come for your things? They’re all packed. I tried sending them a month ago, but nobody was home,” he says, taking a sip of his own glass.

I don’t say where I’ve been.

“I heard about… your firm,” I tell him.

“Of course you did. So you’re here because of your lover’s money.”

“I’m here because… I was worried about you.”

He looks at me and laughs. “A little late for that, sweetheart.”

“Aaron, I never meant to…”

“Hurt me?”

“Yes.” Of course he’s hurt—I know that—but I’m hoping he’ll hear me out. “We met so young. You were all I had. Without my mom, and with Dad gone, I never knew life without you. I… thought it was love—and maybe it was, maybe it was dependency, fear of being alone.”

“So you’re saying you never loved me?”

“I did love you—a part of me always will—but it’s not the kind of love you deserve. You were always my best friend. I loved… what we had.”

“I love you,” he says, walking closer.

I take a step back. “I didn’t come here to…”

“To what?” He stops moving. “What did you come here for?”

“I told you, I was worried.”

“I’m fine. You can clear your conscience.”

“Aaron, you deserve to be happy. Don’t ruin your life because of me.”

“Because of you? Because of the woman I love and have loved since I was a teenager? Because of the woman I fought my parents my whole life for? Nothing else matters now, Iris.”

“Aaron, don’t say that. You’ll meet someone else. Your firm—you built that. Don’t let them take it from you.”

“I don’t give a shit about it. They can have it all.” He finishes his drink in one gulp.

“Aaron, please, I can’t see you like this. You have to move on. ”

“Move on?”

“Yes. Talk to Lara, give Hoyt’s money back, fire her, prove you can handle your deals. Figure things out. Move on.”

“What would I get in return?”

“What?”

“If I make them give his money back?”

“What do you want?” I did not see that coming.

“A night with me.” He gives me a lazy smile.

“What?! No! I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Who said anything about sleeping? Just a date. One last time, you and me, for old times’ sake. I need… closure.”

“I’m not sleeping with you, Aaron!”

“I told you, it’s not the sex I’m after. I just want to…have my friend back, for one last night.”

“I don’t know, Aaron.”

“Your cowboy doesn’t need to know. You’re so good with secrets, I doubt he’d ever suspect.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine, tell him. Iris, please? We owe each other that, don’t you think? A proper adult conversation, over dinner?”

I leave his place without giving him an answer.

Akira comes back holding two giant salads.

“Are you going?” she asks me at lunch.

“I don’t know. If he does give Hoyt’s money back, one dinner might be worth it.”

“Are you going to tell Hoyt?”

“Not yet. He’s in this mess because of me. And now he’s dealing with Johanna, his mom, Kai… and he’s been spending a lot of money. Who knows how much Mona cost. I’d feel better if I got his money back. ”

“Are you sure Aaron isn’t just doing this to sleep with you? Or try to get you back?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Whatever you do, make sure it’s worth it.”

I nod. “Perhaps I need closure too.”

I’m returning a few books to the library when I see James looking at me.

“Hi, James,” I say as I walk by.

“Iris.” The directness catches me off guard. I don’t correct him. I never mind students calling me by my first name. I glance at what he’s holding: Machiavelli, Tolstoy, and one of my favorites, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez.

“Nice selection you have there,” I say. “History fan?”

“I was born in the wrong century.”

I often think the same thing. “I don’t meet many students who read those books for…”

“Pleasure?”

Something about his tone makes me uncomfortable. I look around. Nobody seems to be paying attention.

“Yes. It’s a shame, really.”

“I agree.”

“I’ll see you in class, James.” I walk away.

I have no food at home; I close the fridge door for the third time.

I’m browsing through dinner options, reminded of how many choices the city offers. I settle on Thai when Aaron texts me: Saturday night?

I stare at the message. I have no idea what to do about him. I want him to be happy, to move on. I would have done anything to avoid the mess I’ve created.

Fine, only dinner. Tell me where and when.

I’ll pick you up, Saturday at seven.

I’m showing the class The Hunters in the Snow by Pieter Bruegel when James enters the room. I didn’t know he was taking this class too. I check the student list.

“You’re not on the list, James.”

“I switched classes. You impressed me yesterday.”

I don’t know how to respond to his tone. “Well, I’m glad to see you. Take a seat.”

“This painting of such a mundane activity—hunting. Why did Pieter bother to paint it?” I ask.

Nobody answers.

“This wasn’t a good day for the men in the painting. The hunt was unsuccessful. See this one?” I point to the man looking down. “His defeated pose… Even the dogs seem sad, with their drooping ears.”

“How do we know they aren’t just tired?” Ray asks.

“See the small fox on this man’s back? Looks like it’s all they got. And the tracks in the snow suggest other prey had escaped.”

“I still don’t know why he wasted time on this scene,” Luna says, chewing gum.

“Let’s look at the tiny people ice skating and playing hockey. Perhaps Bruegel wanted the viewer to focus on that. Maybe the hunters were merely a way to guide our eyes to the center of the painting.”

“But the name, it says The Hunters in the Snow ,” Ray says.

“Art historians gave the name—maybe not the best one. That’s the exciting part: we’re all still learning.

This isn’t a realistic painting of a specific location.

He mixed what he knew with what he imagined.

Pieter traveled a lot; we know he saw many landscapes, and he probably saw those mountains.

It’s argued that Bruegel played with scale on purpose, as a way to depict the human condition itself.

We’re locked in life’s day-to-day while also striving for something bigger, even glory. ”

I’m on my way out when James stops me.

“Iris?”

I look back, wishing he’d start calling me Professor. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you’ve read the Analects ?”

“Confucius’s Analects?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t say that I have. My focus is on European and American art. Why?”

“I’m researching different takes on supernatural beliefs, for my own writing.”

“Writing?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m into research.”

“Are you writing a paper?”

“No, a nonfiction book,” he answers.

“And Confucius had a take on it? On ghosts?”

“Yes, I believe so—something to do with keeping them at a distance. I wanted to know if you’ve read it, if it’s worth it.”

“Sorry, you should ask Professor Yang. She’s currently teaching Advanced Readings in East Asian Art and Literature.” Something tells me he already knows this.

“Good to know. Thanks anyway.”

“Good luck,” I say, waiting for him to leave first.

Akira wanted to go to Spiral tonight, but I was looking forward to a night at home. By myself. When was the last time I relaxed at home? Next week , I reply to her .

I’m sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, sipping wine, and watching a thriller when I realize I’m finally at peace with myself.

Things aren’t all figured out, but I’m happy.

I like my life, I like the people in it.

I’m happy with my career, my health, my apartment.

I’m even proud of what I’ve accomplished.

I’m happy in my own skin. Tomorrow, I’ll be ending the longest chapter of my life— Aaron’s chapter —and I’m okay with the unknown.

I’m not sure what the future holds, but I’m ready to face it head-on.