BACKSTORY Ch. 10:  After Hours by Emmet
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		If I had thought my dismissive attitude toward Grace at the end of the GSA meeting would put her off, I was mistaken. In class the next day, Grace positively glowed with excitement. As she came into the room, and several times during class, I noticed she gave me what seemed like significant looks. Like she knew something that she expected me to know too, to understand, and I wasn’t quite sure I was on the right wavelength. She interrupted my lecture on Donne to rave about the poems of another poet, nameless, whom she had just read, whose poetry, she said, was much more effective than Donne’s. “It made you realize how you felt about everything,” she said. This passion was exactly the kind of reaction a poet might hope to get from a reader, and I didn’t quite know how to respond to what she said – thank her, but bring the subject back to Donne, ask her for a more specific example comparing this poet to Donne, discuss expectations of poetry through the ages -- when, again, I was saved by the bell, which gave me a moment to gather my thoughts, try to regain my control, my footing after she interrupted the flow I had planned for the class. “That was an interesting point you made,” I said, finally, amidst the confusion of students packing up, moving about, leaving. She looked at me, grinning securely as she put her books into her backpack.  “Well, I guess I just have strong feelings,” she said, “about poetry.” She smiled, and I realized, when she felt passionate and spoke with conviction, it was as she was when she played Rosalind, when she played Elizabeth Proctor in The Crucible; she was beautiful. Disturbingly so, the purity of her emotion, and I could only mutter, “We’ll continue this some other time,” as she finished loading her backpack. But when I saw her express this passion again, the circumstances were different, and I could not savor it, could not respond to it, could not, really, accept it. Fraud, again, on so many levels. ***** I hadn’t had a date in six months, and the last one had a been a dismal failure resulting from a setup Jerry attempted. I thought briefly of Grace’s enthusiasm that afternoon, of the way her eyes glowed as she spoke, then closed my eyes and shook my head to shake the image from my mind. Grownups, August, I told myself. Teacher. Student. Chris had said to keep it simple, so I didn’t get into making hors d’oeuvres I sometimes do. But I couldn’t resist getting some interesting cheeses from Le Fromagerie, and opening a bottle of good Merlot. I was unwrapping the cheeses, a creamy, pungent Chabichou and a pleasant, nutty aged Gouda, when Chris knocked on the back door. Chris looked good. She was dressed up in what I called her gallery chic. When we were together, dressing up meant a clean pair of jeans and a shirt with no paint splatters. But since she shifted from creating art to selling it, Chris’s wardrobe went through a transformation. Still, I wasn’t sure what to make of her transparent blouse, her black brassiere clearly visible underneath. “Your shirt’s certainly not for the timid,” I commented, and she curtseyed. “I never was timid, was I, Gus?” “No, not you. You look good, Chris. Sexy. Happiness becomes you.” “And you, my dear August, look tired. Pour me some wine and update me on your life. We have a good 30 minutes before Barry and Jazmynne arrive.” I poured two glasses and we carried them into the living room.. Chris went over to the CD collection. “Got some new show tunes, I see. The Producers?” “It’s fantastic. Even if you don’t like musicals. I saw it here and in New York.” “What’s this one?” She held up the CD Grace had made me. “Oh, a student made that for me,” I said, happy to be talking about Grace. “Grace. She’s one of those great students – has a lot of promise as a writer. And an activist too -- she’s been a strong advocate for the Gay/Straight Alliance. I think it helps kids when they see a straight girl excited about something that’s more likely to brand her than benefit her.” Chris read the label. “Goo Goo Dolls? Garbage? Joe Jackson? Not exactly your style, is it?” “I’m broadening my horizons, Chris. Next thing you know I’ll be listening to your Sting music.” “Now that’s quality.” She lifted her glass. “Now how about a toast?” I lifted mine. “To friendship,” I said. She smiled a distant smile, then came back and said, “To love.” We clinked glasses and sipped our wine. I enjoyed the dry, full flavor, the slight warmth as I swallowed. “Barry’s show’s going really well,” she said. “I think it’s why we made the gallery tour.” “I’ll have to come see it,” I said. “Now tell me more about this Jazmynne.” “Well, let’s see. She’s an accountant, has her own business --” Just then, we heard a knock on the back door. “Why don’t you answer that and see for yourself?” Chris said. I felt nervous, suddenly, shy, not sure what I expected out of the evening, ready for the necessary small talk of introductions. I headed into the kitchen and went to the door, But there weren’t two strangers standing there, just one familiar face. Grace. Why was she here? Mechanically, I slid open the glass door. Cold evening air swirled into the room. “Hey!” she said, still wearing her glowing smile of class. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “What, what are you --” I stammered.
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