Mendelson Hall has only one classroom, but occasionally the 12x20 library room downstairs is utilized for smaller classes. The actual classroom has become known as the Mendelson Machine for a few reasons that non-Philosophy students rarely take the time to wonder about. 1) It's ALWAYS too hot, and 2) Some of the greatest moments of genius on the whole campus are created there as efficiently as a juicer juices. The hot part simply adds to the experience.
I enrolled in Ethics this semester based on major requirements and a keen interest. What I didn't think about was the mass of non-majors who would see this particular class and its convenient placement in the day as a perfect way to knock off their Philosophy Gen-Ed requirement for graduation. "What can be hard about Ethics?" they surely thought to themselves, dreaming of an entire semester in a class where all they'd have to do is share their opinions about controversial issues and be told by the teacher that yes, they are the most ethically minded student in the class. Good work.
It has now been four weeks and we are all in the habit of sitting in the same places every day. My place is at the front left part of the semi-circle nearest the professor's post. It has been my seat in every class I've ever had in the Machine, and it eliminates any small-minded human barriers between me and the young, brilliant Professor. Some of the students have actually opened their eyes to what they are studying and what is expected of them, but there are still a few who answer "That's what the Bible says we should do," to every question. I do my very best to resist looking disgusted, but sometimes I know I must fail miserably. There's a very pretty Colombian girl across the semi-circle who smiles and looks at me conspiratorially every time someone launches into religion mode. I've noticed that looking at her during these pointless rants keeps me from becoming too frustrated.
She has started to meet me at the door after class as we are all leaving. We have walked close together and discussed worthwhile material while the cold bluff winds thrust around corners and through the gaps in the trees. As we talk, I sometimes find myself looking down at her close-fitting boots and imagine the calves and ankles underneath. I wonder how long spring can possibly hold off, and if this Colombian girl has ever daydreamed about me in a summer dress with bare legs falling into a comfortable suntan like her natural one.
Her name is Rosario, but she says the "s" like a "z," as an American would. She has no accent, only a slight clip in her speech that remains from her parents' accents, I'd guess. Her voice is a bit brighter than mine. "I wish I had a dark voice like yours, Maia," she said to me once before we parted ways at her dorm building, "It's really nice to hear you read out loud." I have grown quite fond of her voice just the way it is. I have let myself imagine it, even, as it might sound if she were very close to me in the dark, whispering- "That's it," she might say, "Right there."
Today in class, we worked in separate groups on an Applied Ethics exercise. I had hoped to be working with her, since I knew she had been waiting all afternoon to compliment my form-fitting black leggings. She preferred form-fitting clothing, and she liked my form in them. I liked her to look. I wanted to suggest that she get a pair just like them. I thought I might die on my feet if I ever got to see her thighs and butt being gripped the way mine were being gripped right now. I thanked the fashion gods silently that this kind of thing was in style for winter now.
