Summer Classes

Meeting someone wasn't in the cards. Imogen Reed was busy experiencing the destabilization of words. Staring at them long enough, letters began to lose all meaning. The idea that this symbol or that corresponded with a sound became unintelligible. The concept that a squiggle here or there becoming a phoneme or a sound or conveying a thought evaporated like steam, only to condense as storm clouds and confusion. That an S is an S, contrary to Aristotle's sedimentary tautology, lost signification and an S became not S. No phenomena remained as it once appeared. Every letter of a paragraph became glyph or a rune from a forgotten language because in staring all was forgotten and everything once again made alien.

She leaned her head into her hand while staring at students' finals in a bar. She still needed her drink. Even the best ones struggled to look like writing in the second day of pushing through intro-level papers from classes of mostly Freshmen. They meant well, or at least they meant to get it right, but they always picked the most transparently easy option from the choices she gave them and if she never read a comparison of the ideas of happiness between Aristotle and Mill, she would die a happy woman. And yet, like something as crooked in her logic as an S, she committed to keeping the easier questions instead of the heart.

Her glasses laid at the bottom of the next paper in her queue. She tapped it with the cap of her pen. Her eyes, colored with her envy for the people in the bar who got to socialize and came in on dates, just kept looking at the words hoping they would cohere back into an intelligible language. With an arrhythmic tap, she drowned the lives of others out as much as she could. To her frustration, ignoring the people around her did not put the world back together. She could stop up her ears and blind herself further than just removing her glasses, but none of that would make the papers appear properly again.

The heel of her hand pushed her chin up. The bottles behind the counter had prettier designs on the scribbles and a part of her brain could tell what the words said on sight, but she couldn't read them actively. And then her world was intruded on by the arrival of a sour beer. The arm that put it down was covered in near-black hair but had some clear tone and muscle. "Here ya go," the bartender said with a lilt in his voice.

Imogen stared blankly for a moment, unable to process information and only seeing things in abstractions and semiotics. "Thank you," she said in a low voice, barely registering above other people talking. Her voice was gentle but huskier than her frame suggested. She let go of her cheek and gathered up her glasses to put them back on. At least the world further from her became more visible, though words were still far too strange.

"Seem like you're doing something super interesting there, huh?" Peter had on a smile behind his beard colored like space. The relaxed black curls of his hair fell on one side of his forehead, but his hair was maybe four inches long, if Imogen had to guess.

The blonde philosopher sighed. She put down her pen and finally the words in the paper made sense to her again. "Oh, yeah. Gradings my favorite part of my job," she smirked.

"Lovely, seems like you have quite a bit, then. How lucky for you!" The bartender retorted. "Isn't it a bit late in the season for finals?" He folded his arms.

"This class is on the quarter system, semester schools were done a few weeks ago."

"Yeah, I knew they were done a bit ago, 'swhy I asked." Peter tapped the crook of his arm with his middle finger. "What's the class?"

He made Imogen smile. She stretched her spine to pull away from her work and looked at the night dark eyes of the bartender. She picked up her beer and hid her mouth behind it. "Intro to Philosophy. Nothing special."

"Now see, don't tell the boss lady, but I'm trying to leave, ya know, this shit," the bartender pointed at the ceiling and swirled his finger, "so I've actually been back in for my undergrad. I haven't had an opportunity to take a philosophy class."

"They're good classes! I mean, it's about how you think more than anything," Imogen picked up one of her papers flopped it around while she gestured. "I love my friends in STEM, but they just get to give answers or methods for those answers. I have to try to make thinking harder. It's fun, ya know."

She added, "Or at least I love it."

The bartender grinned, "Always good to see someone doing what they love."

"I take it you don't love this job?"

The bartender looked down at the cherry red wood of the bar and over to the nearest patrons. They were a couple simmering over their drinks, unable to speak to one another. Their bodies were wound like a ripcord waiting for someone to pull it. Even from a few stools over, it was clear to anyone they were playing chicken, daring the other to break the silence and in that way daring the bartender to do the same. "Oh, no," he admitted. "I used to be a chef. Didn't love that either, but this job somehow has less cocaine in front of house than back of."

"Well, congrats on keeping your nose clean, then." Imogen raised her glass as a toast.

"Well, tell me about what you're working on. I might have to grab someone a drink, but I've seen you staring at this stuff for a bit." He picked up a glass of water from behind the bar. He grabbed into it with two fingers and scooped out an ice cube. He popped the ice in his mouth. "You seem like you could use the distraction."

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Over an hour had passed. For Peter Rossi, it was supposed to be a full night of listening to people make sound. Syllables and phonemes became noise at a certain point. To say the same word enough times denatured the sound and returned it to the meaninglessness that all words have absent of a connection to a referent. Though in the normal course of events, the word 'beer' had a clear and distinct meaning, that those sounds have a referent vanished just as quickly when repeated in a numbing fashion. Every language, even one's own, could become foreign with enough repetition just as easily as in hearing a sound enough those vibrations coalesced into the amber structure of a beer.

"Are you sure you'll be okay on you own?" Peter repeated for a third time. With a flick of his wrist, he let his leather jacket come to rest on his shoulders. He already clocked out.

Jenna looked at the bar. Where only an hour ago the crowds had been a din of voices layering over each other, now there was the blonde he'd just spent more than that time almost exclusively speaking to, and then there were only a few sundry people who could never demand so attention that she would need the coverage. "Fuckin', dude, it's super chill at this point, I don't even fuckin' know why I'd let you fuckin' stay," she shook her head. "I mean, I fuckin' got over head, man, y'aren't gonna make a ton of tips and I don't really wanna give up the hourly, if I'm fuckn' honest."

"And I will always love your honesty, boss lady," Peter clapped his hands. His eyebrows rose and his forehead creased. "Well, I am clocked out so I believe I'm on the schedule for tomorrow and I will see you then."

"One sec, buddy," Jenna said with her tomato-toned accent. A five-foot-nothing girl from Jersey swiftly pushing fifty with a penchant for leopard print, she could handle about anything. When she spoke, she commanded silence. "You fuckin' ain't gonna be 'round as much after dis week, that right?"

"Oh, just summer shit! This'll be quick, only a couple months. Besides, you'll still have me for, like, most days. I just probably won't get to show you my beautiful face as much."

"You look like fuckin' Italian Marsha Brady with your cracked-ass nose."

"Thanks for keeping me humble, Jen. And feeling young -- I never saw that show on Nick at Nite," Peter saluted his boss and turned away from her. He thought she cursed him from behind his back, but the meaning of words shattered with repetition and if there was one thing Jenna loved to use as filler words, it was curses. They no longer hit his ear.

Peter's step picked up to a trot to get away and on with his evening. At the end of the bar, Imogen sat with a glass empty save a last ice cube. Her red duster trailed toward the floor behind her. Something on her phone fascinated her or otherwise distracted. With tender and delicate feet, he snuck up to her. "Hey."

Imogen looked up from her phone and closed it out before he could see what was happening on the screen. She had everything else ready. Though no more of them had grade, her student's papers found a safe home inside her work bag. "Hey," she repeated.

"You still up for coming over?" Peter asked. Clairvoyance was not required to know her answer. The philosopher nodded and she stood from her stool. She put her bag over her shoulder and across her bright red lips came a smile. "Then, shall we?" he put his arm around her and ushered her out of the bar and to the city streets.

As they walked, they talked about his time in Paris learning to cook and her time studying abroad in Copenhagen, though they both lived most of their life in the same city and now they even lived in the same section. They talked about things they loved -- her passion of theory and his passion to make others happy with food and drink. She laughed when he made little joke. He wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her arm.

Imogen stopped suddenly and she pulled Peter into the alcove of an alleyway. No one could see them in there, they were hidden from the entire world.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked. At first, no answers revealed itself behind her emerald green eyes.

She got up onto her toes and held the back of his neck to angle him for her. "I can't help it," Imogen said, "I just want to kiss you."

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A couple of books tumbled from Peter's shelf as Imogen slammed into the wall. They tumbled down onto their jackets, discarded on the ground the second they got inside His hands on her hips and hers running through his dark, loose waves of hair. They became each other's source of oxygen. Her mouth and his became a conduit for connection. In moments they became one, as if trying desperately to occupy one another's every atom. He slipped around her hips to cup her ass and her manicured nails scratched through his hair and down into his trimmed beard. He growled in gratitude of her touch. Neither of them opened their eyes and risked the moment ending.

Peter kicked the door to his apartment to give them their privacy. The loud slam jolted them from the kiss as a couple more books fell thanks to their ardor. Imogen's head bopped against the wall. Her eyes had been shut to give power to her other senses, but she looked to see the books out of curiosity -- nothing objectionable, just some classic fiction that he'd mined from Little Libraries. But she lacked the time to make sure of what they were as Peter overwhelmed her with a kiss. His hands crawled up her back and she pushed against the wall to give them ballast.

He bowed his head to the side and found her neck. Peter's teeth raked along her skin before he went back in and gently bit her. "Oh, fuck!" Imogen moaned. She pushed his shoulders and he paused to pay attention, "No marks, I can't risk them still being there for work on Monday, okay?"

Peter nodded furiously. "None'll be visible," he gave her a puckish grin before sinking his teeth into her clavicle. Imogen through back her head. Her green eyes fluttered and the world became the world of his touch, his bite, his ardor. The blonde pulled his dark hair gently. She labored for air and only found the air he allowed her to take in. He nipped and licked the protrusion of her clavicle. His arm snaked beneath her black tank top. He seized her breast, causing her to squeal. Scald burns and callouses toughened his hands compared to her soft, tender skin.

"Yes!" she moaned. His shirt too ceased to be a barrier. The muscles of his back were taut and his shoulder blades sharp. She scratched, causing him to stop his assault, if only for a moment. His dark eyes met her grinning face. "I'll do the same," Imogen teased.

He held her neck with his arm not bound in her shirt. He snarled with a grin as both hands tightened their grip. Imogen winced but nuzzled into the crook of his fingers. Peter's heart pounded hard enough that he thought it might break through his rib cage. Blood flowed from his brain down to his crotch. Under his jeans, the feeling of Imogen in his hands made embiggened him. And then she touched it and the blood rush to fill every inch. His jeans betrayed him. Forcing him to be held inside was nothing but cruelty.

"My, my! Going for that already?" Peter backed up. He caught himself on his end table by his couch. He knocked a coaster onto the couch and it bounced onto the floor. He cursed himself under his breath as more things littered around their feet. Some books. A coaster. Their coats. Her work bag. He didn't want to trip either of them.

"Being clumsy?" In their passion, her glasses slid down her nose. She pushed them back into place. The dull light of room shined off the silver frames, drawing closer attention to the emeralds behind. The power of the hunger in her eyes weakened him. Peter smiled and straightened himself up. He had a few inches on her, what was she going to do? He had more power than her. Yet, when she reached out and touched his erection through his jeans, he withered at her touch. He wanted to be stronger, but it was the way she swayed and the way she touched him.

And then she asked, "Do you want to sit down on the couch and free your cock?"

Peter's face turned red behind his beard. His heart pumped erratically. "Yes, ma'am," he nodded. It wasn't hard for him to kick off his beat-up black shoes from standing behind a bar. With a thudding sound, he continued his klutziness and knocked one into his television console and made his Switch fall forward in its cradle. His shirt draped over the television when he threw it away afterward. His body hair was dark, with a clearly defined trail of hair from his beard down to the button of his jeans.

Before he removed his jeans, Imogen put a hand on Peter's chest. With his shoes off and the mild heel of her riding boot, she didn't have to strain as much to kiss him -- she wasn't short, just shorter than him. Her nails raked into his chest hair and gently tugged it over his pec. From lifting crates of beer and working out at home, his lean body was decently defined. He entangled his fingers into her messy blonde locks and their tongues teased and played with one another. Peter knew he wanted to learn all about what Imogen could do with it. He needed her mercy, her kindness, to call forth a volcano he never could summon alone. With each movement of his head and with her touching him, he growled and grunted.

With her warm breath still on his lips, she whispered her order while undoing his button, "Sit down."

Peter did as he was told. The man looked up at Imogen with wonder. She crossed her arms over her stomach and held the hem of her shirt. In a fluid motion, it joined his shirt by the television, though she knocked his from draping over. Hers fell in front and his fell behind. Her panties weren't the most elaborate. Apart from some floral designs in the band, it was simple cups holding in a couple ripe, delicious apples.

Imogen could tell with ease that Peter was eager to touch her. She walked between his akimbo knees. She grabbed onto the back of the couch with her arms on either side of him. Beneath her, Peter looked at her breasts now desiring their freedom. He didn't unclasp her bra, but her pulled one breast from her. He strained his neck to affix his mouth over it and his tongue made little circles on the re-concealed pink nipple. The cu of the bra threatened his lower lip, but he kept himself going, focused.

She wrapped her hands around his head to keep his attention on her chest. His loose dark hair slid between fingers. "Oh, that feels so good," she moaned. She could feel her own desire growing toward his. He broke focus to switch sides and when he did, he rubbed the space between her thighs and glanced his hand beside her. The way his smile pushed his beard made it scratch and rub in a way that shot down her spine.

Imogen pulled herself away from him by the spine. She positioned herself above him with her weight holding him down at the shoulders. Her blonde hair fell around her face and the woman laughed. "Okay, you got to use your mouth," she shifted her weight to one side and teased his jawline with a delicate hand. Her thumb pressed into his chin as she rose his face to meet hers. Sealed with a kiss, she whispered to him, "It's my turn."

After gently pushing her hair behind her ear, Imogen took off her glasses. The clinked as she let them fall an inch or so onto the side table. Still in her jeans and riding boots, Imogen sunk onto her knees. Peter spread out his arms and threw back his head in delight. In her line of work, she sometimes would discuss truth with the concept of aletheia. Rather than discovery, it was truth through revelation and often came in wonder. As she revealed his cock from his jeans and boxer-briefs, Imogen experienced wonder.

Peter sucked in through his teeth. Anticipating her, everything inside of him pulled deep into a well of gravity. Yet despite his better efforts to take that ball and compress it, all of it released when her lips wrapped around his cock and gave it an initial taste. His growl vibrated the couch beneath him, a deep primordial explosion of creation.

"God, yes." Peter had a raspy voice. Every word he said sounded like a scratched record. In desire of that sound, Imogen pushed her mouth down the shaft and protected the hilt with her grip. She let out a content hum on his penis.

Her head moved up and down on his shaft with the nods of a metalhead. Though she kept most strokes of her face to short jabs, Imogen's jaw opened as wide as she could open it and she swallowed as much of his length down as she could every few moments. Her pert nose found its way to his trimmed pubes. The vague smell of sweat and sex filled her. Her shoulders shimmied with delight.

Only a couple minutes passed. Peter scooped his hand under her chin and pulled her from his cock. "I'm gonna cum if you keep doing that, and we can't have that yet."

The woman nodded back. She got up to her feet and Peter followed. His jeans and boxer-briefs fell around his ankles and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside and unfortunately under his couch.

Despite ending the blowjob, the bartender was immediately back to touching her and kissing her. "Just let me get my shoes off!" she insisted. Peter backed off for a moment. At least stepping away he could admire her without a top on. Of course, when she bent down to unzip her tall riding boot, he also admired the view of her butt. While in his life he had the privilege of seeing bigger asses, more luxuriant ones, every other butt disappeared from memory. Her order for him to give her the space to get her shoes off bred a gentle resentment.

"Are you sure I can't just touch your butt?"

"What?" The professor's hair flipped from her face as she looked up to see him. She looked at him with confusion, but she kept working on disrobing. Imogen desired to make herself vulnerable to him. She just had to get the zipper down. She finished getting off her first shoe and added, "Don't worry, you'll be in there soon."

But Peter didn't wait. The hand of a former chef on her ass, Imogen had to remove her shoe through his excitement. To give him a reward for his bad behavior, Imogen shook her ass. Peter bit his tongue while laughing. He gave it a small, welcome, smack. "It's a good ass," he said.