Wanderlust

Night had fallen.

I had been walking for some time. How long, I can't say. I don't know how much time had passed until I had felt too winded to continue. I imagined I had looked bizarre, a man in a blazer running, like he was being chased. Maybe I was. The feeling of being watched hadn't abated, even when I stopped. I must have looked like a madman. My tie was askew, my shirt untucked, my blazer unbuttoned, sweat pouring down my face in rivulets, soaking my shirt.

I hadn't paid attention to my route during my flight. I looked around my surroundings, dazed, tired, hot, confused...and frightened. I couldn't shake the abominable feelings that had assaulted me during my meeting with Johnson. No amount of reason could tamp down the smoldering angst that was alight in my chest, rendering every breath a burning wind of anxiety. My stomach was doing expert gymnastics. My brain cried for oxygen. I stopped walking, leaning forward to place my hands on my knees, putting my chest in front of my body. I felt better. My head stopped spinning, my thoughts becoming clearer.

I took stock of my surroundings. Landscape, well-sculpted, well-edged, well-manicured. Stonework under my feet...old, but washed, white and gorgeous. Like stepping on a piece of Michaelangelo's marble. Very pretty. I was on campus. Had I not run that far?

I squinted about the buildings, trying to gauge my location. It was more than familiar. I was here several times a week. The Singh Memorial, and Singh Hall, home of the Department of Experimental Psychology. Was my subconscious directing me to a comforting locale? A possibility. Was I being guided by an unseen hand, directing my feet like the pieces on a chessboard? That was highly unlikely, I rationalized. I hadn't been paying attention. I had gone somewhere I felt safe. That had to be it. But where had I been in the interim?

I had not idea what the time was. My phone, usually trusty, was dead. I willed myself forward, to Singh Hall. A trickle of people was still exiting the stately building. I skirted the main entrance, taking, instead, one of the sealed side doors, which only certain people had the clout (and the ID cards) to enter. I was one of them. One of the perks of doctoral research: 24 hour access. I did not, however, need to use my access card, as Dr. Ortega was exiting. She brightened up slightly upon seeing me, but one of her eyebrows was raised in confusion.

“Why hello, Wolf,” an easy smile playing across her lips. “Fire at the Future Farmers of America?” she asked teasingly. I couldn't help but smile. Her easy, unassuming manner was one of the reasons her and I got along so well. Her tan skin was smooth for a woman her age, the lines of care outside her eyes the only clue to her “youth”, as she liked to call it. No gray could be seen in her jet black hair (not a feat I could boast about since I was 19, I might add), which was pulled back in a tight bun. Her scholastic demeanor was singular: a teacher in the original sense of the word. Her standards were exacting, and until you met them, she would dog you, never allowing rest. When you met or exceeded her standards, she relaxed...but expected you to maintain your good work autonomously.

“No...” I replied after a moment. I was surprised to hear myself speak; the ragged scratch in my throat was not what I was expecting.

“You look like shit. Are you drunk?” Perhaps relaxed was a bit of understatement.

“No. I don't think I am. I had a scotch at lunch, and then...” I trailed off. Her lips thinned in concern.

“Want a ride home?” I nodded, and joined her side, loosening my tie, allowing my neck to breath.

As we drove off campus, Dr. Ortega noticed my silence. It perturbed her, I imagine, because she engaged me.

“So, a scotch a lunch, eh? Are you sure it was just one?” I nodded.

“Yeah, I was...with Dr. Johnson, and...”

I was cut off. I hate being interrupted.

“Oh, Malcolm? He's invited me for drinks tonight, around 8.” My blood ran cold, my heart seeming to halt its beating in my chest.

“He what?” Incredulity bled into my voice, my eyes flicking to her. Her head turned slightly to meet my eyes, eyebrows furled, her mouth assuming the position of an educator about to chastise a student for a buffoonish answer, or incomplete classwork.

“He's invited me out tonight. To have drinks. You know, it's what adults do?” I shook my head in frustration.

“I got that part, Doc. What I meant was...you can't go.” I regretted the words as I said them.

“Oh, I'm sorry Wolf. I didn't realize you were scheduling my personal appointments now. Call him and tell him I need to take a rain check then.” Her voice dripped with scorn.

“No...that's not how I meant it. I just...I don't like him.”

Sometimes, I can make a complete ass of myself.

“You're doing my matchmaking for me too? How thoughtful, Emma Woodhouse.” Her knuckles went whiter as they gripped the leopard-print covered steering wheel, making the stuffiest right turn I'd seen since my mother used to yell at me when she was driving. One of her pastimes, I'll have you know.

“It's not that. I just...think he's a child molester or something.”

“A child molester?” Without saying anything to the fact, she was berating me.

“Yeah, he fits the profile. Single white male, lives alone, in his late forties to early fifties, well-educated.” I lied swiftly. Usually, when my wits are about me, I can lie well.

“And? I'm single, live alone, am well-educated, and am in my late forties. So what?”

“You're not a white male though, Doc. Listen...I get some sort of...bad vibe about him. Like he's swept something under the rug that doesn't smell quite right. Just, please...do me a favor and cancel with him.” We pulled up in my driveway. She was eyeing me up slyly. “Please, Ana...” I didn't use her forename that often, unless I was trying to drive home my point.

“Alright. I'll cancel. And make a date with Glee, how does that sound?”

“Thank you, Doc,” I replied, relief flowing through me. “I'll explain...tomorrow, ok? I need a shower. And some medicine, I think.” I rubbed my temples, giving off the air of pain. She nodded, and I opened the door of her car, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“Wolf,” she said. “You said you got a... “bad vibe”? You don't get vibes.” I nodded.

“I know. I'll see you tomorrow, ok?” I shut the door and she beeped the horn once for me, and I turned to my home.