Fainting Couch

Mitzelplix
Last week in the copier room:

I turn the corner, wondering how to avoid him--
and he is standing there,
between the two copiers.
Using both.

"Uhhh . . ." he stutters, grabbing his sheets
off from one copier to make room for me.

I stride purposefully into the small closet space,
use my best Marla Singer voice:
"Trying to take up both, 'eh?"

My question isn't addressed to him and he knows this.

Our backs are to each other,
six inches apart.

Tension's thick. My copy job's going to take a while.
After a few minutes, I relax;
I realize we aren't going to speak to each other.

In walks Bond-girl-wannabe.
She smoozes up to him. He barely responds.
Suddenly, I recognize those eyes,
that tone of voice.
He's incredibly sad. Sad.
Just incredibly, well, sad, of all things.

The image of Mitzelpix's sadness
haunts me for a few days.
I replay those last few hours of our relationship
together:
his voice coming over the phone, the word "contempt"
flying like a dagger, the constant revisions to my thesis-
becoming-his.
The winning award, the certificate, champagne
and wine at the Shakespearean house, shaking hands,
and exchanging emails full of empty apologies.
Then his nerve in asking a letter
of recommendation from me to the Dean, to the Provost.
I refuse. Take a stand.
Not even realizing until a least a year later
what I had done wrong. Then the red flame of shame.

Last night in the vending area:

Sitting alone on a bench, I scarf down a delicious
BLT on wheat from the Oasis (did you know they were closing?).
I pretend to study the paper. But I'm really savoring
that sandwich.

In walks Mitzelplix.

The same dapper look since 1998. My peripheral
vision could spot him 10 yards away.
He stares at the Pepsi machine.
I ignore him.
He ignores me.

This goes on for a few moments.

My sandwich begins to taste sour.
Above all, I'm pissed that now he's even ruining my sandwich
of all things (not to mention my entire professional career).

"Uh, SQ?"

Is he actually approaching me?

Walking toward me?

I look up. Remain incredibly cool. "Mmm-um?" I ask,
mouth full, eyebrows raised.

"Do you have a quarter?"

What?

"Yeah. This machine says it's a buck twenty-five. I'm
short a quarter."

A crooked grin escapes from me. "uh, sure."
I hop up and start searching through my bag.
I never have quarters,
but noticed one this morning.

"Thanks." He mutters nonchalantly. "Let me know when
you need money off from me--"

"Right. I'll ask for more than a quarter." I go back to ignoring him
and he complains that the machine was once 75 cents (like when?).

I'm dazed. The gall.
His pride and my pride only amounting to 25 cents.
He needed that Pepsi, and his need for a Pepsi
out weighed the thought of looking me in the face.

What am I worth?