This letter is a sidebar to the "Grounded in Toronto" series that features Eleanor Burton.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 years or older when in sexual situations.
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December 5, 2017
My dearest Eleanor,
I know that what we had is over, but the memory of what we had, however fleeting, helps carry me forward.
I wish that we could start over, now knowing you, your thoughts and desires, the subtle curves of your body, and the secret places that I could touch with my fingers and tongue that would elicit the arching of your back and a gentle sigh from your parted lips. Part of me believes that if we started over that I could convince you to leave Camille for me - it's a dream that I've replayed in my mind more times than I can count.
There is so much that was left unsaid - my hopes and dreams for us, together. Was there something I could have said or done that would have changed your mind?
You're the famous writer who has received accolades from around the world. I'm just a student. Yet here I am writing to you, professing my love for you once again, and capturing my thoughts for the both of us so that the freshness and richness of our relationship can be preserved, as if an insect trapped in amber.
You know about my background, my childhood in rural Indiana and adolescence in suburban Chicago. The confusion in high school, when my conservative parents pushed me to date boys and I feigned interest to placate them and my friends. My coming out in college, and the vistas that admission opened up for me with my sexual awakening. And then you.
You came into my life and roared through it like a freight train, knocking down all of my preconceived notions about women, relationships and love. I've rebuilt my life, hopefully stronger, after the carnage caused by our whirlwind romance.
My story with you started with my senior year at the University of Nevada-Reno. It was an exciting time for me, with the looming completion of college and the prospects of a new job in a new city somewhere. It was late August and the thermometer had topped 100 degrees for the past five days. I was walking across campus, sweating and cursing under my breath. I never enjoyed the hot, muggy days in the Midwest, and even though the heat in the desert was a "dry heat," that was little solace for the intense sun of the afternoon. My blouse was sticking to my body, and as I entered into the air-conditioned building for class registration, the cold air caused me to shiver. I negotiated my way through a crowded hallway to the large conference room staffed by university personnel that allowed students to make last minute changes to their on-line registration. I was focused on one class that was now open again for last minute additions. It was called "Introduction to Women's Literature" and was being taught by you, Eleanor Burton, a famous author of lesbian themed fiction. I'd read your semi-autobiographical novel "Grounded in Toronto," and was smitten by your writing and by you. Your photo on the back of the dust cover showed an attractive, confident 40-ish woman with long honey blonde hair that was up in a chignon. It also indicated you were married to Camille Durand, the woman depicted in the novel as your lover and then your wife. I was lucky enough to get the last remaining spot in your class. Little did I know that you would upend my life.
I moved into my apartment that same week, planning to spend the weekend unpacking and seeking out old friends. I was living at that time with three other girls. We were friends from high school and roomed together for the last two years. It was typical student housing, a shabby apartment building that had seen better days twenty years ago and was now relegated to a transient student population. I didn't care. I was 21 and had my whole life in front of me.
I'd come out my first year of college and already had a series of girlfriends, but none of them filled that void in my heart. Sure, they were cute and were fun in bed, but none of them possessed the intellectual firepower or the real world experience to hold my interest. I was sure that a special woman was out there for me and that it was my duty to find her.
Classes started the following Monday. Fortunately my first class of the day was at 8 a.m., when it was a crisp 70 degrees and sunny. I was angling for a teaching credential and was rounding out my course load to get the proper distribution of credits. I had an introductory economics class first and then the class that I was really looking forward to attending at 10 a.m., your class of course.
The economics class as expected was boring. It was literally a "check the box" for me as part of my class distribution, so I numbed myself for the lecture. I couldn't have given a rat's ass about supply and demand curves or elasticity of demand. After the lecture was over I sprinted to the "Introduction to Women's Literature" class so I could get a seat up front. It was to no avail. The first two rows of the small lecture hall were already taken so I settled for a seat three rows back from the stage. As I was settling into my seat an acquaintance, Louise, from my English Literature class the previous year, sat next to me.
"Hey, I didn't know you had signed up for this class," I said as I lightly poked her side with my finger.
Louise gave me a devilish grin. "I didn't know that you were into women."
"I didn't sign up for this class to pick up someone. I really want to learn more about Eleanor. She's had an amazing life," I said with true admiration in my voice.
"Well, I signed up for the class because the instructor is hot," sighed Louise. "I imagine every lesbian on campus tried to get into this class."
"Well, Eleanor is beautiful. But her beauty also permeates her writing," I observed. "She has a way of expressing herself that really speaks to me."
At that moment, the dull roar of the class reduced itself to stone cold silence as the door behind the lectern opened and you stepped into the room. I can remember that moment as vividly as if it happened yesterday. You were wearing a fitted black jacket with a turquoise blouse, a black pencil skirt cut about four inches above the knee, and open toe black pumps with four inch heels. Your hair was in its trademark chignon. You looked just like I pictured you, attractive, confident and impeccably dressed.
"Hello, I'm Eleanor Burton. I'm a visiting lecturer for this semester. I'm going to spend this semester teaching this class and in my off hours I'll be conducting research for my next book. I've never taught a class before so I'll count on you to keep me on the straight and narrow."
"Most of you are hopefully familiar with my work. My latest novel, Grounded in Toronto, was a slightly fictionalized account of my accidental rendezvous with my future wife, Camille Durand. I'll encourage you to read it if you haven't already, as it provides insight into my background."
I spent the next hour in rapt attention as you paced the stage, giving us an overview of the semester and what you intended to accomplish. I had a hard time focusing on what you were saying, as my attention was really on you, and the way you gracefully moved across the stage, using your slender hands for emphasis when you were talking. I had never been captivated by someone before, but you had clearly gotten my attention. Your offhand comment at the end of the lecture is what changed my life.
"Well, it looks like the hour is up. I'm going to be interviewing for a research assistant for my new book. The pay isn't great, but I can promise you a great experience working directly with me. Stop by my office. I've written down my contact information and my office address and office hours on the board."
I scribbled down your contact information and noted that your office hours began at 1 in the afternoon. That gave me enough time to go back to my apartment to shower and change. I wanted to look my best for you.
