As quietly as he could manage, Ross pulled the clam-shaped chair across the smooth rose-colored carpet and placed it in the corner closest to Hannah's voice. Based on what he remembered about the layout of the bathroom, she couldn't be further than five feet from where he now sat. He felt a visceral ache of disdain for the floral printed wall that prevented him from seeing her as she must look now- her face flushed with the hot water she was submerged in, her delicate knees visible just above the surface....
Hannah was a feminist, and a brilliant and beautiful one. The first two adjectives were responsible for her being here with him in this oversized hotel suite, nestled in a suburban corner of lesser Chicago. Rather, it was the conference...The International Society of Philosophical Studies (ISPS) yearly conference, to which both he and Hannah had been given personal invitations by their mutual teacher and mentor, Doctor Adam Beaumont. The last adjective was merely what complicated it all. Ross had known brilliant women before...even some that were as nice to him as Hannah was...but none of them had captured his soul the way she did. His essence was truly a lost and wandering thing without orienting itself somehow to her.
He closed his eyes- a gesture entirely pointless in a shadowy room so blocked from her image- and pictured her glistening arms coming up out of the water and gripping the sides of the tub in the next room, her shoulders adjusting and her back arching. Her head would start to fall back next, her whole body bending in a pleasured, stress-releasing stretch. He thought about all the things that motion could reveal as her body broke the surface of the bathwater.
The image was torn away when he heard her speak again, and he thought it was probably for the best. He didn't know what her body really looked like anyway, and he certainly wasn't the type to go hunting for a discreet little hole in the wall where he might be able to spy on her. The kind of man that did that sort of thing was not the kind of man Hannah would ever want. Besides, holes-in-the-wall like that didn't generally appear in nice places like this.
He could hear Doctor Beaumont out in the living area, shuffling some papers around and chatting cordially with Hannah through the closed bathroom door. Conversation between them always came very easily, and they acted as lifelong friends or even family. It was really quite discouraging for Ross. No matter how much he reminded himself that he and Hannah were essentially equals, and there's no reason why she shouldn't want to give him the time of day, he found his extremities nearly shaking in her close presence. It wasn't even because she was a feminist, as his best friend Ryan had tried to convince him. His insecurity definitely did NOT result from a fear that she secretly hated men, because, as he reminded Ryan, that's not what real feminism is about. Never mind that Hannah often demonstrated a bit of a temper, something that Ross found even more charming.
She and Beaumont were talking about her presentation now- He sharing his complimentary insights and her being her beautiful modest self, lightly criticizing her mistakes but not dwelling on them. Her voice softened into an enchanting laugh that actually vibrated the wall where Ross's ear was pressed, and the space of the conversation shrunk. Beaumont was now seated in the chair facing the bathroom door, putting him almost as close to her as Ross was, but seemingly much less overcome with the fact. Her charismatic, womanly laugh had literally called him closer, and Ross found himself pressing a hand on the wall, conscious of the fact that he could not move any closer himself.
"Feminist philosophy is always so well received these days," he heard her musing. "I wonder what it would have been like to deliver my paper ten years ago...maybe even twenty. I'm sure the mere fact that I am a woman myself would have been regarded as a folly." There were a few light splashes in the water, and a long pause. "I felt like the great majority of my audience tonight was really invested in the critique...like maybe it's finally becoming a practical argument. I just wish that journalist hadn't missed the point."
Beaumont gave a short, hopeful half-laugh, half-sigh. "Thanks to people like you, the argument isn't taboo. I can honestly say I was incredibly impressed by how you handled the questions he asked you. I found myself wondering if my colleagues and I even have the right to claim any sort of pedagogical authority over you anymore." He paused for a minute, shuffling paper once again. "Don't worry about that Grant guy... he was just asking the questions he thought his readers would want asked."
The admiration went back and forth for several more minutes- He fawning on her brilliance, charm, and professionalism, she claiming that it was only possible because of guidance, support, and faith.....his guidance, his support, his faith. It was a very rewarding conversation for both of them, Ross was sure. He wondered if it would even be happening if he were sitting out on the curved, beige sofa reading the newspaper or writing in his journal instead of hiding away in the dark of his room, asleep for all they knew.
A journalist in a dark suit and shiny, plastic-like hair had listened intently to Hannah's presentation, his eyes seeming to be glued to her very lips with a sinister smile on his own. Ross had only noticed because he had been standing just across from the man, wondering what the strange little smile meant and if this man might be interested at all in feminism. When she courteously asked her audience for questions, this ill-hearted listener had, in very eloquent and carefully-chosen words, accused her of being a false feminist...a woman participating in a counter-struggle for the sake of counter-struggle. He had called her high heels, carefully curled spun-gold hair, and sparkling earrings as evidence...along with several misquoted passages from her presentation.
After a few minutes both Hannah and Dr. Beaumont were silent, and that silence went on for so long that Ross nearly found himself lost in images of Hannah's wet breasts and stomach again. He shook his head violently, cursing his disgusting male behavior.
"Hannah?" Beaumont asked, almost hesitantly. "Has anyone else ever challenged your serious support and study of feminism...I mean, based on your looks and your conduct, before today? I only ask because, as I'm sure you've noticed, there is a trend in the academic world of female feminist philosophers taking to a...well, a less standardized, feminine gender identity and appearance. I don't mean that Mr. Grant was justified in accusing you...but... well...you can understand why someone might think this way." The man was stumbling over words for the first time since Ross had met him, incredibly intent on avoiding anything that could sound like a criticism, and it made Ross smile just a little bit. As much as he tried not to have negative or competitive thoughts about Beaumont and the attention he got from Hannah, he felt the professor slipping into a conversation that was likely to offend her delicate temper, and possibly reveal Beaumont's own narrow-minded and sexist views about feminism.
"Well..." she started to answer, analyzing the way in which the question had been asked with what seemed to be a heated silence, "I suppose I don't appear totally convincing to some people, but I don't think it's necessary for me to change my gender identity in order to fit a belief system that any gendered person can have. My desire to wear dresses and earrings and have my toenails painted does not make me more of a woman than someone with the desire to cut her hair short and wear neckties, or likewise...and it doesn't make me any less of a feminist. What do you think a feminist should look like?"
Beaumont had to be either smiling or grimacing at her increasingly agitated tone. Ross himself didn't know what to do. The water in the tub splashed a bit more fiercely and it was clear that Hannah was getting out.
She had handled the journalist's questions quite well, as Beaumont had articulated, but it had been an intense moment for everyone who was really paying attention. On the stage, standing with great command behind a narrow podium, Hannah had replied in a very professional, non-confrontational way, but her eyes were flashing with frustration and clear annoyance. It wasn't just the journalist who was begging this question, but a great majority of human thinkers (and Hannah supposed, non-thinkers). This made her answers very, very important. Ross had wanted to walk to the podium and take hold of her hand, unfolding it from its clenched fist, and to remind her that even if no one else in the world understood her, he did, and always would.
"I think what a feminist looks like is beside the point," Beaumont answered, his voice a little more distant now, probably moving away from the door out of courtesy for a soon-to-emerge Hannah. "I just wonder if a heterosexually driven, attractive young woman wearing makeup and heels doesn't complicate the resistance against patriarchal and symbolically misogynistic conventions that feminists are so invested in. That look was created by oppressive men, after all."
The water from the tub began to vacate the room with a brief, audible suck from the drain, and through the thick wall Ross could make out the sound of the aforementioned ripping a towel from the polished aluminum rack and letting it snap against the floor.
Heavy hinges suddenly collapsed and the bathroom door swung open, colliding softly with the safety stop resting on the outer wall.
"So, I can't look the way I want to look because it happens to be something that pleases men? What about lesbians? Should I try to avoid pleasing their eyes, too? What happens when a trans-gendered individual finds me attractive?" If Ross hadn't been caught up in the idea of the bathroom door standing open between Hannah and the professor, he might have wondered to himself how much of her apparent anger was actually directed at any one person. Hannah had a way of articulating her frustrations to an invisible audience in very convincing and militant tones.
Ross fell to his knees immediately and scuffled to the bedroom door, his nose bumping the door softly in his attempt to jam his eye deep into the keyhole. He wanted to see if her skin was still flushed and shimmering with bathwater, and if he could glimpse her sun-tanned calves and ankles, bare in the calm low-lighting of the living area. When he did see her, she wasn't in her long, pink robe but a short, tightly wrapped towel- plain white. Her hair was still mostly dry but had gained a fair amount of life in the steamy confines of the bathroom- now it framed her face in a careless shower of smooth, mist-damp waves from everywhere. Doctor Beaumont was watching her as one watches a wild beast of the jungle, and she was staring back, expecting an answer.
"Hannah...I.....I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just providing you the same scholastic challenge that Mr. Grant posed. As someone seeking a practical argument, you'll be faced with ignorant and ill-founded questions and you'll be expected to answer them."
