Understanding Windmills

It’s not until my art class has started, that I decide to go. I’d been wandering through the aisles at the local dollar store spending my rent money on plastic things I’ll never use, when I saw the kid’s art kit with imperfect colors of crayons and yellowing paper. I knew that even the right tools couldn’t bring artistry where there was none; and then, feeling strangely empowered, I decided to attend class.

My art supplies were on the kitchen counter of my apartment, but I went anyway. Zephyr, the art instructor, lets us do that.

“Sometimes you’re out of the zone,” he told us. “But that doesn’t mean much. You just have to wait till the force comes back around.”

He is, in my opinion, full of shit. As an undergrad, he was the department head’s darling and, rumor has it, lover.

Once, when we were discussing my work, and he didn’t seem too enthused, I said, “Maybe I’ll just fuck the teacher. Worked for you, right?”

He eyed me then a smirk crept across his face. “But because,” he told me as he tossed my charcoal sketches toward me. “That wasn’t my only talent.”

I am not noticed as I slip into class and take my usual seat in the bleachers, up at the top where no one can look over your shoulders and see that your vision is crap. I am only in class for minutes, it seems, and then I am shuffling out. Zephyr looks at me, but says nothing.

I go home. The answering machine is blinking, so I check the caller ID. Four calls, three from the landlord.

The last is from Jeff, who would be my boyfriend if I let him. He’s left a message on the recorder.

I should call him; otherwise, he’ll continue to call throughout the day and into the evening. He might even drive over just to see if I’m home and okay.

I should call him, but I don’t.

“You’re going?”

I nod as I rise from the bed, naked. My current art assignment has me bugged. I pull on my jeans. Zipping them, I take a deep breath and ask Zephyr for an extension. “I’m just having such difficulties,” I tell him. We’re supposed to go to the agricultural section of the campus and draw one of the windmills. He laughs as I sit on the edge of the bed and push my feet into my sandals. I can tell he’s gonna give me the extra time, but still he gives that look. I wasn’t supposed to ask for favors and I’m not even looking at a “C” for fucking him.

“I just can’t get the blade thing to work,” I explain. “The way they overlap . . .”

Zephyr laughs again. He tells me it’s illusory; the blades don’t overlap.

I feel the sole of his foot against my back as he shoves me off the bed. “That is why,” he explains, “you will probably flunk my class and life as well.

“You think things are somehow connected, and, really, they’re not.”