Drinker of Ink

by Shannon Castleton

My hormones make me a miserable feminist.

In an alternate universe, where I were at least 24 and no longer a student, and had formed dozens of attachments and had kissed many men, both standing up and sitting down, I would ask Peter Breznik to coffee.

When I write a book, I want my bio to hint at love between each line like that. I want readers to know that I loved someone and that someone loved me, and that we made a loving life together.

do not like my pronoun sharing sentence space with his name.

Why is attraction a mix of elation and sickness for me?

At the top of the library steps, Peter opened his romantically-worn canvas satchel and pulled out a heathered-blue sweatshirt. “Right now, at this moment, I’m your friend, Vivienne, not your instructor. You’ve had a tough morning, and you say you’re fine, but I can tell you might be unsteady. It’s chilly and you’re shivering. Please take this. Just leave it on the back of your chair after class on Friday.”

I missed Poetry today and Baking on Thursday, but at least I have Peter Breznik’s sweatshirt to console me.

I passed him so closely that his strong-tendoned hand resting at the edge of his table grazed the outside of my thigh.

“My name,” Peter whispered.

And so I did, Vivienne. I read you. Not as an instructor reads a student, or as a critic reads a poet. I read you as a boy reads the girl whose mere presence and voice spark sudden fire in his chest. Afterward, I knew that I could not return your journal until I had written you.

You, Vivienne. Every fragmented detail.

I’d close them or look away if I could live with the thought of not seeing you.

“Like the ladybugs on your necklace that another guy clasped around your neck right in front of me?”

Chocolate on the edge of Vivienne’s lip. Hold still, sweet— right there—I’ll kiss it.