Miss Atkinson. Miss Atkinson was my 11th grade English teacher. She was fresh out of college, no more than 23 years old. She was pretty, but not gorgeous. Curvy but not stacked. But she loved poetry as I did. In Alabama, people who loved poetry were few and far between, so naturally we bonded. She would call on me in class to read a particularly poignant poem to the rest of the stodgy students. She'd come over to my desk with her textbook and lean over, to point out the poem to me. Did she know I was looking down her blouse? I think so. I think she encouraged it.
Since I didn't really need to study in the class to surpass the stodges, I sometimes spent the hour doodling a portrait of her in my notebook. I'm not a very good artist, so I really had to struggle to get her right. The creases of the ear. The curve of the eyebrow. I had to get them all perfect. I think she must have noticed, for why would a student need to erase so much when taking notes? One day as I was doodling, she crept up silently from behind. I'm sure she saw what I was doing, but she didn't say anything. She looked like she was avoiding my eyes after that.
The year passed and I languished in unrequited horniness. But life goes on. My senior year was about to start, and I needed to be more than just a poetry geek. So I decided to go out for track. I had never run track, but I was pretty fast at sprints. I knew I had to build endurance, though, so I started running. To inspire me to do this, I always ran past her house. It was a small town. Every day I ran and every day I looked at her house, hoping she would see me becoming a strong man.
It was August 19th. School was starting in a couple of weeks. It was miserably hot. But I ran anyway. As usual, I glanced at her house. She was on the porch. I probably stumbled, but I tried to slow down coolly and I called out, "Hi Miss Atkinson". She smiled broadly and waved back. I regarded this as a friendly gesture, so I walked up the sidewalk toward her house, shaking my legs and arms like I was a real athlete. "I'm sorry I'm not going to be in your class next year," I said. She gave a half smile, half grimace and said, "I'm not teaching here next year. I'm moving back to Michigan."
I was crushed. Not even able to see her at school? I was aghast. It must have shown. "I'll miss you," I choked out.
"I'll miss you too," she said. "I really enjoyed reading poetry with you. That was very special," she said quietly, "You have an incredible gift, you know."
"I just can't help letting my feelings out when I read poetry," I said. It was true. I couldn't. I was letting my feelings out pretty clearly right then.
"Let's read some more together". She invited me in.
"I must smell terrible," I said, "I'm dripping with sweat."
"I'll get you a towel," she offered. I toweled off and she brought out a book of poems called Some Haystacks Don't Even Have Any Needle. "This is an incredible book," she said.
It was. We took turns reading ee cummings, Robert Frost, W.H. Auden and many others. Not the usual famous ones, but obscure ones. It was so wonderful. "Here, read this one," she said, "I want to hear you do it." The poem was called Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, written by Ernest Dowson. Look it up if you want to find out what it means. You might actually recognize one line. A famous book and movie were taken from it.
"I have forgot much, Cynarae. Gone with the wind."
But that line doesn't do it justice. It begins:
"Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. "
Holy cow! Miss Atkinson (or Rita, as she now insisted I call her) had given me a love poem to read to her. I gave it the full theatrical treatment, complete with faux British accent. She was loving it! I finished up:
"But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;"
Her eyes were full of tears. She looked up at me, that way, you know, with head bowed but eyes uplifted. It is that look that says "kiss me". I wasn't all that experienced, but some signs you can't miss. I kissed her. I folded the book on the table, put my hand on her cheek and kissed her full on the lips. She kissed back. Hard. With tongue. My other hand went around her back and we tilted toward the padded window seat in glorious liplock.
The window seat was fortunate. It was a cushioned ledge that looked out into the fenced back yard. The August sun shown in hotly. Not as hot as us though.
I can't write sex. I don't know if I want to. I was clumsy, seventeen years old, and little better than a rank virgin. It wouldn't make the pages of a Harlequin Romance. We wound up in the shower, now both sweaty. It was the best shower of my life.
I had to go. She knew it. I knew it. "When do you move," I rasped weakly.
"Next week," she said with well-controlled emotion.
"Can I come back tomorrow," I said pitifully.
"I'm going to be packing. And I will be gone a lot. And it wouldn't be fair to you."
I was seventeen and I was going to be a man. Men don't cry. I didn't cry. Then.
Later, I cried a lot. There are tears in my eyes now.