His name was Theo, I think, or even if it wasn’t, it remains the name in my mind. He drove a beat-up convertible with a torn top that leaked in the rain. The whole floorboard smelled of mold and the passenger seat had a near-permanent water puddle that always left my jean-clad bottom soaked. He drove me to Wrightsville Beach a few times, top down and music blaring. Always at night. Maybe I have a weakness for older men in convertibles. Americana, and all. He wasn’t really my type, and even if he had been, I wasn't looking. At the time I was suffering a broken heart, and trying to patch together a life alone. Theo was sickly; he had some muscle work done, hospital visits, in and out of school and older than I, still trying to finish his undergrad in between bouts of illness. I don’t know if he was attracted to me, or if he simply lacked company.
It was summer, the workload was lighter, and we were in the same program. I was taking a required Spanish language class, and he was catching up on one of the requisite philosophy classes he had missed the prior year. Since we were both philosophy majors, we spent a good deal of time together going over the words of the masters before us. Better that then the Spanish flashcards I longed to avoid. He was one of those rare boys that wouldn’t belittle my opinion simply because I was a girl in philosophy. (There were others who thought their dicks made their brains more supple and knowledgeable to the nuances of Socrates and Descartes.) We would meet in the air-conditioned library to study. Good company.
Theo lived in the apartment building across the street from mine, and so we would occasionally walk to class together in the mornings. That is how we first met. One hot North Carolina morning, Theo nearly tripped over me as I was kneeling on the sidewalk. I remember that I was in a denim pencil skirt and precariously squatting in hideous plastic wedge sandals that were only cute in the early 2000's. I was hunkered down on the pavement trying to nudge a pale brown earth worm from the burning sidewalk to the grass. I was using a twig to push it along, figuring that by mid-morning the sun would have baked the wiggling thing to a crisp, and at least in the grass by the path it’d stand a chance. Theo offered to help, but I triumphantly flung the worm to the greens and brushed myself off for class. He said later he thought that it was kind of me, taking the time to stop and rescue a worm. I replied that it would have been kinder if I had the guts to actually pick up the creature and move it, rather than shovel it with a twig. We walked the rest of the way to school making small talk that continued for the rest of the summer.
Theo never made a move on me, even though we spent a lot of time together in situations that most men wouldn’t be able to resist. Night time at the beach, a thunderstorm rolling in. Heads bent over books in the library or cozy corner coffee shop. Inside a moldy convertible, the sky opened up by our hands. And once, just once, in his apartment. He lived in a furnished studio; heavy wooden furniture that couldn’t be moved, practical chairs with coarse fabric and a full-sized bed bolted to the wall. It was cozy though, with a row of windows that nearly took up one wall. The bed wasn’t much bigger than a twin, but it was big enough that he and I could lounge on it, share a bottle of wine, and watch a movie. Usually I would avoid mens' beds, but there was no other place. It was the only time we did this, Theo and I, and the movie was forgettable. I don’t think we even finished watching it. Instead, we drank, and talked, and I was getting a bit loose with my lips and spilling my guts out with the liquid courage of Bacchus. I admitted something to him that I never told anyone, leaning my head back on a pillow near his shoulder.
“I don’t think,” I said, “that I even have the faintest idea of how to seduce a man.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I realized what I had said sounded childish, almost coy. I turned away to look at the wall, trying to think of something funny to say, or at least something wiser. Older.
His answer came through a cracked voice, slowly, as if he was holding something back.
“Believe me," he said, "I think you do.”
