Then the bell chimes. Not in the movie, in the lecture hall. The hour is up, and Anna’s still not here and I just don’t understand why. She may always be late but she’s never missed a class. Not once. It’s so out of character.
The students start to pack up and filter out the second they hear the bell, the way that people can’t wait to get up out of their seats once a plane has landed and before the seatbelt sign flickers off. I stay exactly where I am, rooted to the spot, with my pen still poised to write notes on my yellow legal pad, which has a series of numbers in the top-right corner that I remember writing but I’ve completely forgotten the significance of. I’m wondering why Anna didn’t come to class and where she could be. I sit there thinking about this until the only people left in this vast lecture hall are Marcus and me.
Marcus is slowly wiping the white board clean of the words he used to illustrate the lecture, as if he’s erasing all trace of his sexual obsessions. He’s wiping away all the words I love to hear him say.
Scopophilia, an obsession with looking.
Retifism, a fetish for shoes.
Trichophilia, a fetish for hair.
When the board is wiped clean, Marcus turns back to his desk, collects his notes, gathers them under his arm, and looks up. He looks up and looks at me. And I realize it’s the first time he’s ever really looked at me. The first time I’ve ever met his eyes and looked directly into them. And I suddenly feel ashamed and embarrassed because I’m dressed in these clothes I borrowed from Anna that really don’t suit me at all.
Marcus looks at me expectantly and I say, I’m waiting for Anna.
‘Who?’ he says.
And I don’t know if he’s joking, but I can’t imagine Marcus does humor. Too intense, too intellectual, too wrapped up in himself. And the other thing about Marcus is, there’s no way to discern what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, from his face or the tone of his voice. He gives nothing away. He’s that closed and mysterious and that’s why I’m so obsessed.
The blonde girl, I say, who sits behind me. Anna.
And I blurt it out all out, everything she told me, because I’m so nervous that I’m here, in front of Marcus, and he’s talking to me and I’m talking to him. I tell him everything I know. About Anna’s visits, the apartment, the closet, his mother’s clothes.
I’ve never had a conversation with Marcus before, we’ve never exchanged more than a few words, and I want him to know that I know. I want him to know that his kink is OK with me. That it’s not only OK, that I understand. And because I understand, we have something in common. And if he likes Anna, he would like me too.
He listens to me and he doesn’t say a word. He lets me speak, he lets me say my piece and he doesn’t interrupt, and I’m in heaven, because I’m actually talking to Marcus, not just looking and dreaming. It’s as if I’ve been granted an intimate meeting with the pop idol I’ve had a huge crush on since childhood, that I’ve fantasized about, held imaginary conversations with and masturbated over. And now he’s here right in front of me, just me and him, and we’re talking, interacting – at least it feels that way, even if it’s just me talking – and everything I want to say comes out, in a breathless rush, and not necessarily in the right order. But when I’m sure I’ve covered everything and there’s nothing I’ve left out, I stop.
He looks at me with this strange expression on his face that’s halfway between a frown and a smile. I can’t tell whether he’s angry or amused. He looks at me and he says, ‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Then he picks up his notes and walks out of the hall without saying another word.
All my illusions about Marcus have been shattered. Maybe he never was what I thought he was. Maybe Anna made up everything she told me about Marcus to feed into my fantasies about him. I’m so confused.
All this time I thought Marcus was my Achilles heel. But I was wrong, so wrong.
It wasn’t Marcus, it was Anna.
Anna is my Achilles heel, the fatal blonde who I’d follow to the ends of the earth.
Where is Anna? I suddenly realize I don’t really know her. I know so little about who she is, or where she comes from. I only know what she’s told me and what she means to me.
When all is said and done, how many people really know us? Know our daily routine: where we go, who we meet, what we do. If something were to happen, if we were to suddenly disappear or go missing, who would know where to look, who to ask, who to call? Friends – even the ones you think of close friends, the ones you believe you feel a deep, abiding connection to – likely won’t know. Family, probably even less.