“A man who sees with his eyes is, in truth, blind. These were the ideas of Plato, a man you surely know and one we shall speak on today. I understand that some of you have anticipated this unit of Greek philosophy, but I, for one, am dreading it.” A murmur rippled through the class, one Morrow Sare expected, of course. His distaste for discussing these great ideas was never received with open arms. “I know, I know, who am I, a simple professor, to challenge the ideas of Socrates and Aristotle? No, you misunderstand me.  I am simply a man who doesn’t put ideas of the past on a high pedestal. I much prefer to look to the present ideas of man than the dust bunnies of history.” 

He turned on the projector, the large screen above his head illuminating to display, in large Comic Sans font: ‘Greek Philosophers’ (a large smiley face followed the text as he is assuredly a comedian). He took a deep breath, ready to begin his lecture, his mouth opening to form a proper introduction to the works of Plato, when he was interrupted by his door opening. The door was heavy, but in no manner was the forcefulness by which it opened necessary. It hit the wall with such a crescendo that the whole class could not help themselves from turning and staring, awaiting what large being could have caused such a commotion. It was, in fact, not a beast, or worse, an administrator, but a girl. She was on the shorter side and appeared very nervous–freshman most likely–and seemed to cower behind the large textbooks she clutched in her arms. 

Morrow stared at her expectantly and she hurried into the classroom, quickly picking a seat a few rows back from the front. He couldn’t have cared less and promptly continued the lecture. She disappeared from his consciousness as quickly as she had arrived.

The lecture in question was one he had done many times before, the same spiel, the same overworked kids. There were a few who wished to contradict his ideas with conspiracies and other nonsense, but given that he was quite skilled in such matters, he deflected each comment before they even reached a period. “I am here to talk of the facts and ideas laid out by history, not some gay fanfiction you read about some old philosopher,” he would say when one would come up, and each time it warranted some giggles. A comedian, indeed.

“Now let’s begin. Today we will focus on the widely discussed topic of ‘Plato’s epistemology.’ The theory of knowledge, and–before you interrupt me with scientific facts about the brain, let me explain. This is a philosophy class. Science burns here.” More chuckles and murmurs. Of course, science was a great influence on modern philosophy, but for Plato’s sake, for now, it burns. “You see, Plato believed that all knowledge was deep within a person, and throughout life, said person would unlock and discover his knowledge. That is why ‘the seeing man is blind, the man who uses his senses to learn is a fool,’ and so forth, because for Plato, why look to others and the sky when all you need to know is right…” He gestured with a finger as if trying to find the special place where his knowledge was located, slyly giving a knowing look to the class when he gestured lower. “Huh,” he said, a finger coming to a stop by his side. “It’s somewhere.” The class laughed. He was the fun professor, the young one, barely 34, lively and funny. The class ate his words from his fingers, and one could not deny the excitement it gave him. 

How lovely it is not to be an old fart, he’d say to himself, knowing that within a few minutes, he would captivate his sullen audience with charisma and a few well-placed jokes. Once he had them, the lecture went by swiftly and he found himself enjoying it. 

Throughout his day he never once thought of the new girl–she was not the most remarkable-looking–until she peeked into his office at about a quarter to three. He was preparing to leave his office for the day and brave the car ride home when she stepped in. Her second entrance lacked the commotion of her first, and he barely heard her come in until she spoke. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Sare.” It was light with an accent–he couldn’t pinpoint the origin–and it wobbled a bit, perhaps from nerves. He turned to examine her.

“Are you the one who assaulted my door this morning?”

“Oh my God, please forgive me, sir.  It wouldn’t open until I pushed very hard.” She became more panicked, and since Morrow had no intention of dealing with a confused and anxious girl, he shrugged it off. 

“That door is a nuisance. Now, have a seat, tell me who you are and what you need.”

She took a seat in the carpet-upholstered chair that sat by its lonesome in front of his desk. He had intended to get a second, so if he ever did have more than one visitor, each could have a spot; but for now, it was just him and her, sitting across from the other. He was able to get a good look at her then. Olive skin and dark, straight hair. It was long, reaching to her elbows, and well cared for; sleek, shiny, soft. Her eyes held a sense of youth that he hadn’t seen in a while. A lively pink in her tan cheeks and even the rise and fall of her chest felt vibrant. In the presence of such nervous excitement (as young freshmen always have) he felt content. Almost like he, himself, was young again.

“I, uh, I’m new. In your class, I mean. I just transferred from the sister campus.” Ah, Caren, at Saxson University, the side campus to the larger university, somewhere near Vancouver. It was smaller than Saxson, but still held a variety of subjects, and was, of course, close to the city. 

“Moved here? I thought Caren was an ideal location. As opposed to here.”

“Oh no sir, I quite like the Washington country. Plus my grandmother is here and Caren didn’t offer the classes I wished to take.”

He did not care about her other classes, but he did like her voice. So young and pretty. Elsie’s was like that once.

“Well, what is your name? I need to check to see if you’re on my roster.”

“Amara Leon.”

“Uhhh, ok. I see you. Now, is there anything else you need?”

“I was wondering if I could have a list of everything I missed?”

He nodded and rummaged through his desk, pulling out a binder of lesson plans. “Let’s see..many of the past assignments you can find online.” She nodded.  “But some notes and things won’t be, so here.” He unclipped a few pieces of paper from the binder. “These are my notes.”

She seemed hesitant to take them at first but eventually stuck out her hand. Her nails were blue. 

“Is this ok, sir? Me taking the teacher’s notes?” The way she looked at him stirred something in his gut, something he was keen on ignoring. 

“Just don’t tell the others,” he said with a grin and a wink. An action that turned her pink cheeks scarlet. It was a bit exhilarating, to see such a color, to know that he could still create it, even if it had ceased to appear on his Elsie.

She left soon after their interaction, but that feeling in his chest didn’t. It was a satisfying little tickle in his abdomen, a sweet and youthful pull. It followed him home.

Through his walkway and into his kitchen it followed. Down the hall and into his bedroom. But then it stopped. Right at her feet

_______

His Elsie had lost her color a long time ago. Smile lines looked more like sad wrinkles, and her eyes never seemed to glow. The youthful energy he had brought into the room faded when he looked at her, reverting to the familiar dullness of routine and dreaded fatherhood. 

She gave Morrow a hug and a kiss, as she always did, and he kissed back, patting her tummy, trying to love what was inside. He did not hate his little boy, no, how could he? But how could he dream with such an anchor? How could he be as a man needed to be while also being a father?

“We have leftovers for dinner. I’ve already eaten, and will most likely go to bed soon.” He nodded. She always went to bed early nowadays. Maybe it was the baby. “I love you,” she added as if she knew of his longing for what he had tasted just moments before. 

“I love you too, my dear. Get some rest.” A forehead kiss and he was in the kitchen again. Grabbing a Tupperware of cold meatloaf, heating it, and sitting down on the raggedy couch to watch the news and eat.

He harbored a sinking feeling somewhere in his chest that would resurface at times like these. Sitting, alone. Knowing of all the work to do and bills to pay. Papers to grade, and a baby to prepare for. He went to get a beer. 

Morrow tried not to ponder the future, tried to savor the taste of the bitter alcohol, tried to focus on the screen. It was no use, he realized and shut off the TV with a click. “I’ll sleep here tonight,” he said to no one, relaxing on the couch and letting his eyes droop shut, feeling, just as he began to slip into REM, that same pull he felt in his office, only this time, it seemed more insistent. 

_____

The buzz of the cheap university air conditioner was annoying, very annoying. It didn’t help that his head hurt, and he never got around to grading those long papers on dead Asian philosophers last night. He was sick of Confucianism anyway. 

Elsie yelled at him this morning. She sounded so harsh and mean. Sleeping on the couch again, Morrow? Can’t you just try? I am, I am, he’d responded. No, you aren’t. It’s like you don’t want this.

He rubbed his temples, willing the ringing of her voice to stop. 

“Hello, Mr. Sare.”  Sweet honey. The voice coated his temples and eased the ringing. His eyes, which had been closed for the last five minutes, opened to see the new girl, Amy, Ava, something, standing in front of him. 

“Uh, hi. Sorry. I’ll begin the lesson soon.” He stood up, under the impression that class was about to start.

“Oh no, no sir, please. I just came in early. I wanted to give you the notes you lent me.”

He checked his wristwatch. Quarter to ten; She was early. “Well, ok, Ms….”

“Amara Leon, sir.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.” 

She laughed. “Oh it’s ok, you have so many students to keep track of, I’m sure it’s hard to remember.” He felt almost trancelike, staring at her, reveling in the validation, I’m sure it’s hard to remember. You work so hard, Mr. Sare. She plopped the pages of notes onto his desk, the thump snapping him out of his stupor. “Tired, sir?”

“A bit.”

She laughed again. It was light, and he liked the way the lines on her face smiled, too. It didn’t look like mean wrinkles. “Oh, sir…um, your hair…”

He reached up and realized that his hair was tousled, he must have forgotten to brush it. The dark brown hair atop his head lacked the slicked back look he usually styled, now it stuck in odd directions, looking as if someone had run a hand through, instead of a brush. He tried to pat it down, but there was always a small, too-short piece, in the back that never stayed down. He didn’t have the copious amounts of gel he usually used to tame it.

“Wow, sir! You look so much younger!” No more gel. “Maybe it’s the ruffian look. It looks good!” Better yet, no more comb. Younger. He smiled wide at her, blinking at the seemingly endless light she radiated.  

“Did the notes help?” he asked, his voice wavering slightly. Did she make him nervous?

“Yes, of course! Thank you again.” She turned and made her way to her seat, taking some of the light with her. 

The course went by as normal.  He began discussing a paper the students would need to write, eliciting groans from the group.  He knew they had just written one, but they’d get over it. They always do. 

Something was weird about this lesson, though. A tugging, constantly, that pulled him to Amara. Maybe it wasn’t her, maybe it was just her voice or the twinkling that followed her. It was familiar in some way, that desire, but it had never been so strong. It was building inside him, reaching and clawing, making him tremble slightly. He was surprised his voice stayed even. When he blinked he still saw the glow.

He did his best to keep focus on the lesson, eyes darting from the projection to his class. “You can take this paper in all different directions; however, it must be a comparison. You can take the easy route and just compare the practical and the eutopia with Plato and Aristotle, using their contrasting ideas on the soul and wisdom, or you could take a big step back and compare modern views of Aristotle’s ‘theoretical wisdom,’ or compare Socrates to some underground philosopher named Chuck who-”

A ringing reverberated through his pocket. Elsie. Only she bypassed his do not disturb. 

“Excuse me for a second.  Please have your topics sent to me for review by Friday.”

He hustled out of the room, letting the door thump behind him, dread creeping up his spine, fighting with that ever-present pull. 

“Elsie-”

“Where are they?! My glasses! I can’t find them, they’re gone. Where are they, Morrow?!”

“Honey, calm down–”

“No, you listen to me, where are they?!”

“ELSIE.” The line went silent. And then she began to sob. 

“Oh, Morrow,” she wailed. “What is happening to me? What is happening to you?” 

“There is nothing wrong with me. It’s just the damn pregnancy hormones. Go to bed.” He couldn’t speak to her right now. Every sob she let out only made the pull stronger. 

“I’m sorry.” And the line went dead.

_____

“All over some glasses? That’s a crazy, pregnant woman for you.” The trio chuckled. Morrow buried his head in his hands.

“Jesus Christ, when will it end?”

“This is the shit you got yourself into, man.” Carson tipped his beer back, shooting it down his throat. “So glad I’m not married.”

He wasn’t. His only relationships extended to some random woman on Tinder. Sex every Thursday, and, maybe if she tried hard enough, he would agree to meet her parents. He wouldn’t, Morrow knew, but that was Carson, and he was happy. 

Back when he had met Elsie he thought he was the luckiest, compared to Carson. He had a stable life, a pretty wife, and a track to tenure.  That was how it went, and he was following his path.  Everyone told him he was doing the right thing, so he assumed Carson was doing it wrong. But sitting here, in the bar that smelled like sweat and spilled rum, it didn’t feel like he was winning.  Carson never complained about angry, hormonal women, because he wasn’t obligated to any of them. He never wished for a better future because he never had anything in the future to dread. He was happy, and Morrow…wasn’t? Could he call himself happy in his situation? 

The boys had been talking about random things, sports games, beer brands, the usual. But Morrow sat and thought. “Do I want something different?” he whispered.

“What ‘cha mumbling about over there?” grunted Will, the youngest of the three. Still in college, still hopeful. The pull came back. 

“Let’s get wasted.”

“Oh shit…really?”

“Hell, yeah! Another round over here! Let’s party like we’re twenty!” Carson lifted his glass.

  Morrow looked at him, eyes glazed over a bit, “…twenty…”

_____

Hey, Mr. Sare,

It’s been almost 2 months since we turned in our ancient essays, and a couple of us were wondering when you would grade them. I know it takes a while, and we turned in our comparison essays only 2 weeks ago…but just asking.

Thanks,

Cara

_____

Amara had come to see him thrice in the past month. Each day was better than the last. Elsie had stopped whining, and the students were easy to teach. He felt like one of them. There had been some weird emails earlier about him not doing and just making jokes, but it was just another dumb student. 

He had told this to Amara and her response was always perfect, Oh, Mr. Sare, you do work hard, and we do appreciate you! Sometimes I mistake you for one of us, haha!

“I am, aren’t I?” he would respond, but he didn’t laugh about it.

She would comment on his room decoration and how fun it was. He put more posters on the wall, plants on the window sills, and kept candy in a porcelain jar on his desk. He never brushed his hair.

It was good. The light was there, it seemed, all the time. Warming and calming, but always with a light mischief. The pull was there, but, when in Amara’s company, it lessened, as if he was right where he needed to be. When he needed to be. 

Home was a place he never desired to be, and he avoided it at every possible turn. Staying late at work, or visiting the bar after hours. He never picked up Elsie’s calls unless she called twice or left a voicemail. He found that the first call was usually impulsive and full of ugly sobbing and begging. He hated how pathetic she had begun to sound, and, with every call he ignored, the claws she had sunk into his chest loosened. 

You cannot starve me of freedom yet, woman. 

_____

Morrow Sare,

I have received a few emails regarding your class. I have been made aware that you have missed classes and are acting inappropriately during the ones you do attend. A custodian has also reported a glass of gin underneath your desk. You are aware that Saxson has an absolute intolerance for drinking, especially by faculty. I am astounded that such a thing was found in your classroom and am requesting a plausible excuse. 

It is also a protocol that a drug test be conducted.

We do not tolerate teachers acting like they are in high school. Pull yourself together or you will be dismissed.

Linda Carthrow,

Saxon Administration Board

_____

Pathetic, he had said, to look inside oneself for answers. But here he sat, staring at the bust of the old philosopher, Plato’s eyes hollowed and empty. Amara was next to him.  I think she had said, I think he is right, you know.  We already know what we want and need. We do not need sight to determine so.

“What do I want?” he asked.  To her, the statue, himself? He didn’t know. 

“Close your eyes. Remember, sight is not your tool, it is your weakness.” The pull was back, it was worse. 

It had been getting worse the past week.  Some days he felt sick to his stomach, scared he would hack up the thick rope that yanked him somewhere. The longer it went on, the more calls he ignored, the papers he didn’t grade, and the emails he didn’t answer–the harder it became to ignore. He had the impression that he was slipping, a tiny little thing that told him to root himself. Why stay standing when you can run? He told it, and it promptly shut up.

They both had their eyes closed now, reveling in the sanctuary of Plato’s gaze. He imagined coils of soul and knowledge wrapping themselves around their ribs and pelvises, curling around their calves, and reaching up around their necks.  

“How is your wife? Is she coming along okay with the baby?” It stopped. The peace, the warmth, the freedom. Like the hand of a great beast, the pull had grasped his lungs and yanked him forward, causing all reason and air to leave him instantly. His mind, in an instant, blanked, as if I had erased something from his mind. About thirty-five years worth of things.

“I do not have a wife.” He turned to her, eyes blazing with a new-found rage. So forceful was his gaze that she stood from the bench on which they sat and took a step back.

“Sir–” she stuttered, confusion coloring her features “You told me you had a wife. And an unborn son.”

He also stood with a sudden movement. “What are you talking about?! I would never subject myself to something like that. Trapping myself with some woman. I am free. I mean could you even imagine doing something like that now? Look at us! We still have so much time”

Amara took another step back trying to analyze what Morrow was saying, her eyes searching his and finding nothing but insanity. She turned and left, and the pull was so strong that Morrow followed. 

“Please, stop, sir,” she said, quickening her pace out of the Samuel K. Marson Histories Building, rushing down the stairs and across the pavement. But Morrow stopped on the stoop. As if in a trance, he watched her disappear into the parking lot, and then with a sudden urgency, he unsheathed his phone from his pocket and opened up his email.

_____

I know what they don’t tell me. I see things without my eyes. You are my pull, my drug, my truth. 

We have so much ahead of us, a great abyss. I feel it licking and kissing my toes and my spine. 

They cannot constrict us any longer, our youth is their greatest fear. They cannot counter such a thing, such a euphoria. 

How erotic we taste, mingled body and mind. Let us prance without doubt because we are set and we are free. 

My sweetheart who trapped, but now I can scream. I love you I know, and you pull me to you. 

I will heal and create. I will take what has brought me, and begin another round. Again, I have time, and now I shan’t mistake. I will run, and she will fall should she dare snip my bare wings.

_____

The memory of going to the bar was a glimmer, but he was crazed. Drunk and wild. Parading down the street, the wind a whistling tune. He would be free soon. 

The driveway was dark, as the woman never turned on the lights. How foolish, he thought, to think I could see in such death.

The door was unlocked. Careless bitch. And he sauntered on through. 

“Morrow. Why are you home so early? Wait, are you drunk?”

He shoved past her bloated stomach and reached for the refrigerator. A drink to calm the heart that began to pound so mercilessly in his chest. 

“Honestly. I can’t live like this anymore.” Her words fell onto his ears but all he heard was red. The anger trickled into his eyes and he saw fire. 

“I am doing nothing wrong. I am fine. It is you who has left this for dead. Killed what little I had. Gave away my life for what? You weren’t even worth it.” No longer would he apologize. He was done. He was twenty now.

“Morrow, what?”

“You heard me.”

“No, you- you asked for this.” Tears and sobs echoed through the kitchen, but he never cried. He had just reached adulthood, and he would drink and skip class and screw any girl he wanted. 

It was a frantic motion. One he expected and didn’t. But it felt so jubilating, to cut through the chains. The blood of his dreaded future soaked his hands and it felt amazing. 

“I’m FREE!” he yelled, staring at the woman. 

She had no time to scream, the knife took her so off guard. When the shock faded from her eyes, she saw what he had done.

A baby lost, a man gone mad. A premature cesarean, taking more than one life.

She fell to the ground. Body limp.

_____

“He never said my name.”

“I’m sorry?”

Amara looked at the officer. 

“In the email. It was weird. I know that it was sent to me, but he never addressed me directly. It was like he was speaking to something beyond me. And at the end, it just felt like he was talking to himself.” The officer looked at her quizzically, not fully computing. “It doesn’t make sense, I know, but I don’t think this was about me. I don’t think he was in love with me. Maybe it was just the idea of me or something.”

The officer hummed and pulled out his black little pad along with a small recording device. After laying out his materials and setting the device to record, he studied her.

“Amara Leon. You know the drill. Name, age, the whole spiel.” She did as he said. “Now, we are going to start over. Now that the chaos is done, I want to know how you met him, and your first interactions with Morrow Sare.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, I entered his class, mid-way through the semester because of my move–as you are aware.” He nodded. “And it was normal. He looked at me and then looked away. I never thought, at all through our interactions, even before he, you know, did that to his–” She cleared her throat again, the reality a bit too fresh. “It was only the night of the murder that he seemed any different. He was a cool teacher. He was young.”