Stranger Still by George Ochoa

Teresa and I often made love, though never in the flesh. To this day the psychiatrists will scrutinize such a statement as if it meant something other than what it plainly says, as if it were the telltale boil of some rare mental pox that might explain the blood spills photographed by the police. But these doctors do not understand love, optics, metaphysics, error, or even good taste. As far as flesh went, I never touched or even talked to Teresa, not until our moral decline had already begun. Before then, seeing the chaste tables that divided us in the Columbia library less than a decade ago, in the middle years of the 1990s, you might have thought Teresa and I were strangers, that she didn’t know I was alive.

I first saw her early in my junior year, a new female sitting several tables away in the Burgess-Carpenter reading room on the fourth floor of Butler Library. She seemed at first like any other of the pretty women on campus whom I liked to ogle and who regarded me as if I were invisible. But the more I stared at her, the more she particularly interested me. A pile of books rested near her elbow on the blond pine table, her head bent with rapt attention over her open book. Hazy September sunlight from the tall windows bathed her small breasts in her magenta top, made the white skin of her forearms glow. Her dark-brown hair was long and luxuriant, her neck long, her face shaped like that of a Raphael Madonna. But what captured me most were her eyes—large, sad eyes, ringed with mauve circles as if she hadn’t slept well. Why was she sad? Was there something I could do to make her happier?

We sat like that for a long time, she near the east end of a table in the back, never noticing me, while I shot frequent glances at her from near the west end of the second table from the door. About twenty feet diagonally divided us, too far for me to discern her eye color, though I tried. Finally, she got up, gathering her books into a white canvas tote bag and walking toward the door. As her gangly frame passed me, I gave her eyes a good look and saw they were hazel, flickering elusively under their long lashes from green to brown to gold.

The thought of her big, sad, long-lashed hazel eyes kept me happy for the rest of my day at Columbia. Even when I boarded the downtown Number One train, the first of the three trains that every evening buried me back in Jamaica, Queens, I was still thinking of those eyes. But an hour and fifteen minutes in the subways will discourage anyone. By the time I left the second leg, the D train, for the final and longest leg, the F, my thoughts were turning dark. The train was crowded with smelly, loam-colored laborers imported from faraway continents, and me just one of the horde.

Most students at Columbia boarded, but because my family was poorer than that of the standard Ivy Leaguer, I was a commuter. Combined with my natural tendency toward solitude, this meant I had no friends either on campus or anywhere else. I longed to make contact with someone, anyone, but did not know how. Sometimes I just wanted to pet them—the young secretary sitting before me on the subway in vinyl jacket and glittery eyeliner—to touch her shoulder, her pulsing throat, and say, “I am here. I am lonely. Help me.” Sometimes I wanted to hit them—the goon in the Yankees cap. When I felt particularly desperate, I wanted to stab them. I had knives that would have fit that purpose, but I never took them out of the house.