Cook 1

Marissa Cook
Professor Vivian
ENG 291
6 October 2015
Flighty
My first real love was drawing, which has always been more of a surprise to everyone
around me than to myself. I wear plain clothes, usually on the formal side, straight and flatly
blond hair that I always wear up, thin-rimmed oval glasses when I read, with the air of a premedical student more so than a visual artist. When I declared my major in art at the end of my
sophomore year, my parents were supportive of the choice, but they were also perplexed: I had
always shown an aptitude for science. But a minor in biology helped to assuage their concerns
for my future, and they left the matter alone.
They might have had some lingering doubtsgrowing up my interests would jump from
one phase to the next with the perching staccato walk of a robin jumping between twigs. For a
month it was gymnastics, then it was violin; I revolved from the school newspaper to pottery to
anthropology over the course of one trimester in the tenth grade. I was in dance when I was
eleven, but I abandoned that after two and a half weeks. It turned out that I didnt have the
patience to move in time with the other girls steps. Now, my parents were probably worried that
my BFA was another passing whim, one I would drop as soon as I glimpsed something new.
It didnt happen that way. Maybe I was starting to mature, but more likely it was because
of the nature of art, which by necessity arcs out to every other subject. There was no getting
bored; if my work felt dull, it was the fault of my imagination and research, not the task itself.
When I was settling into my major at the start of junior year, I met James. I had known
him before, only not closely; he was an economics major, RA, also a junior, and a soccer player.
He had many friends; he was the kind who made friends with anyone who happened to share two
words with him. When I saw him at the start of the semester, he was in a loose college t-shirt and
red athletic shorts that hung to his knees. His forehead was bright with a sheen of sweat from
playing volleyball with his frat brothers in the lingering summer heat. He was standing in the
open door of my room as I began to move in. It was the day before my roommate was scheduled
to arrive, and I was moving the furniture so we could bunk the beds for more floor space.
It wasnt until I stopped moving a desk with a heave of a breath when I realized he was
standing there. He had been walking past, but stopped mid-step when he saw me, his half-raised
water bottle popped open in his hand.
Hey, Audrey, he said.
Hey, I answered vaguely. I considered James an acquaintance at most.
Need some help? he asked. He had an easy smile, relaxed. It filled his face.
I think Ive got it, I answered. I didnt mean to be rude, but it sounded that way. I was
focused on where I wanted to place the futon before I moved the beds. I either sounded like a
child or a cold bitch.
James was undaunted. You sure? Those things are heavy. You shouldnt be doing that on
your own.
I shrugged. They werent that heavy. Im really fine.
He shrugged too, but with his hands lifted, very casual like he was teasing. I mean, if
you say so. Come on, itll be way easier with two people.

Cook 2
He strolled into the room like his comment has cleared everything up. He seemed
determined to be helpful. It would be best to let him.
I nodded. Sure.
It was admittedly easier with him there, and I thanked him along with a more sincere
smile before he left. Before he turned to go he let a moment stretch out while his eyes lingered
on me, creased with a softer smile, something meaningful about it.
I wasnt entirely sure what that look meant until he asked me out later that week. He had
made a point to run into me at convenient times, and he was a nice enough person, very bright
and interesting in conversation. He was down-to-earth in all the ways I couldnt be and
spontaneous in all the ways I wasnt. I thought we might work well together. Apparently he
agreed.
James was excellent at planning dates, always certain to find somewhere new to go, to
keep the conversation running, to pay for everything. Very kind and considerate. I didnt feel the
same about my interpersonal abilities, and after a while it all began to feel a little much. But it
was flattering, andalthough frankly I cant remember what was said between usat the end of
some distracted and awkward conversation one night in early October, we were official, or at
least that was according to Facebook.
When one of my classmates ran across me in the drawing studio finishing my pastel piece
for midterm, I turned down her invitation to take a dinner break.
My boyfriends showing up in a few minutes, I explained. Were probably going out.
She shrugged and said something else, but I was puzzled over the way my tongue
halted over the first two words and didnt hear her.
What?
No problem, she repeated. I didnt know you had a boyfriend.
My shrug was abrupt. Only since a few days ago. Weve been dating for a while. I
lowered my eyes back to the schematic underdrawing of my work. Maybe that was why it didnt
feel real. I had thought starting a solid romantic relationship was supposed to mean more. Was I
supposed to tell people about these sorts of things? Should I feel more excited to?
At the root of my confusion was the simple fact that I hadnt been in a long-term
relationship before. I didnt get crushes. When I did they were short-lived, ephemeral things that
evaporated promptly. On my own, this wouldnt have bothered me. But I still remember when I
was on a long car trip with two of my older cousins on our way to our aunts cottage on the lake.
Tears of sunlight slanted down through the windows to strike against their shining hair, long and
richly brown, lit up their pale, moon-hazel eyes, stroked across finely sculpted cheek and jaw
bones. I had had one boyfriend at age seventeen, and this had lasted less than a month. Awed at
my inexperience, they were certain I needed them to help along my initiation into adulthood. I
had been sketching a diagram of an airplane from a textbook when the question came.
But you know when your heart starts to beat faster when youre close to the guy you
like? the younger of the two asked. Or, like, when youre just together and youre so happy all
the time? Like everything is perfect and you cant stop being all over them.
I tore my eyes from the sketch as the car jolted over a flaw in the road. The way they
were looking at me I felt the echoing lack of the answer they expected, like I had skipped over a
page in my textbook without noticing. I listened to the running of the wheels beneath us as the
car hurtled over the road. I imagined us driving faster across the flat fields that stretched out
around us. I always got impatient in cars.
No, I said flatly.

Cook 3
What? My oldest cousin was alarmed, but in a playful way, like I had said Id never
seen a particular scene of Star Wars. Thats the best part!
Dont worry, her sister added. Youll find it someday.
In my junior year of college, I wasnt sure if I had found it. I had assumed I would know,
but now, when someone interested in me and fitting any qualifications I could think of was
placed right in front of me, I still wasnt sure. I began to wonder if it was actually a smaller
emotion that I didnt have the refinement to notice. Even sitting in the cafeteria as I listened to
friends talking about their significant others or their momentary passions, I was distinctly aware
that I must be missing something. It was a good thing their eyes rarely turned to meI didnt
tend to carry conversationsbecause I had nothing to add. They would talk about someones
body, hair, legs, ass, how hot the objectified individual looked, and when I reflected on it myself
I found that none of these thoughts had ever occurred to me. I could understand them on what
might be called a conceptual level, but I felt nothing about them. I wasnt used to missing pieces
like this; I began to wonder what it was that I didnt have.
When James was interested in me, I saw no reason why I shouldnt be interested in him.
He was intelligent; he was charismatic and sociable; he was funny. He had an air of certainty
about him in spite of the frivolity. He even possessed the kind of surface glamor that I recognized
as a dusting left over from high school popularity. He was an excellent choice for a partner, even
if I found that his personality had several details to be desiredsubtler humor and the desire to
consider abstract concepts, for instance. But these were minor issues; these were overly critical
opinions. I wanted to believe in the possibility that I could love him.
Our relationship developed gradually between classes. At the same time, I was further
polishing my artistic focus. I had stumbled on a love of depicting birds earlier in the summer and
had taken up my time filling a sketchbook with drawings. But I dont mean a bird in reference to
some cute creature drawn hastily on a cartoon branchalthough that didnt stop others from
writing off my work as just that. I mean bright, living birds, arrested in mid-motion, often drawn
from observation. I wanted to be able to show the strain and drag of gravity and the elements on
their outstretched wings, their wildness and their personalities, their reptilian quirks catalogued
with my penchant for realism. The impermanence and flexibility of a birds state, captured for
only a fleeting momentthat was what I meant. That was what intrigued me about them.
Meanwhile, James found space to work around my schedule, which I appreciated. One
night, he was sitting with me in the drawing studio as I worked on a still life, unhappy with it
because the plastic owls the teacher had placed just wouldnt look alive in my ink drawings.
Youre sort of a workoholic, arent you? he said at one turn of our conversation. He
looked my way with an arched eyebrow, like he was expecting me to deny it. Like I would even
try to deny it. Even like he was chiding me for it.
Obviously, I returned. I sounded like I felt. Like he was being redundant and it annoyed
me to have to listen to him be redundant.
He backed off immediately. Whoa, sorry. I was only teasing you.
I shook my head at myself. Im just tired. Although I didnt apologize.
James wasnt fooled. Something wrong?
No. My hand slowed as I sketched a line. Liar. I paused for a second.
Sometimes Im notsure that this is real. I dont know. Thats not what I mean. I know
I can be distant sometimes, so Im sorry. I like my space. Although sometimes I think I dont feel
emotions right, or evenphysical attraction. Im probably justmissing it. I think.

Cook 4
What I managed to say did not seem to encompass what I felt, and I had already grown
self-conscious about it when James laughed.
Youre so funny. You always overthink everything.
True. Fine. But why did that prompt another rise of irritability? Why did I want to scream
at him that he knew nothing about me and had no right to belittle me for it?
He leaned a hair closer to me. But I think its cute, he added on a murmur.
When he kissed me, all I know is that I had spent the half hour before hoping that he
wouldnt. I think most people find kissing pleasurable. I can imagine a kiss being pleasurable.
But all I felt was my rigidly solid self crushed into dry-but-moist flesh that felt nauseatingly
pliable, entirely too aware of the awkward position of my neck and how he smelled like mingled
sweat and body spray, and when I thought I should have felt like it was the perfect moment, like
melding into him. I did not want to become a part of him. I didnt want him to be a part of me. I
didnt want to carry that weight.
But I hid that as well as my relief when he left a few minutes later. I felt ashamed of
myself for that reaction, odd and misplaced in a way I had never imagined I would be. I knew I
could be accustomed to dramatic flares of emotion, even if I was outwardly detached and
cerebral. I could think of no reason not to feel something for him. He seemed to know exactly
how he felt, and he seemed ever devoted to making me happy. Then why didnt I feel anything
but numb, or bored, or trapped? If he was everything that would perfectly balance me, then why
did I only feel a lingering affection that was quickly tiring?
I was flighty. If my life before now had taught me anything, that was what I could glean.
I was inconsistent, carried away on any passing breeze by sheer chance. I could not devote
myself to someone so entirely that I would ground myself with them. I was selfish. I was
determined to be alone. I had been told that being alone was something undesirable, gray and
pointless in the long run, and I became aware that I wore our relationship like a shield, a check in
a list of requirements that proved I was mature and stable. I didnt want to be alone, like I was
something undeveloped, defective. But I also didnt want someone pressed against me, wanting
to be pressed against me, wanting me when I didnt know how to want them. I grew to believe
that I must be incapable of love. I knew there must be an overwhelming emotion that should
come at me irrationally and sweep me up in its power with the wildness of a summer
thunderstorm, and I became sure that I had imagined my capacity to feel such passion at all.
I came to these conclusions silently. James never figured into them. When he did, I could
only feel a sourness coil in my lower stomach. He wasnt a bad person. If I was so mercurial
toward him, I had to strive against that tendency and reason myself out of it. He wanted me to be
happy, and so shouldnt I be happy? Regardless, I didnt know how to explain why I felt uneasy
with him, unless I blamed the wind and my own flawed head that was already turning toward it.
All I knew was once I was away from him, he would never cross my mind. And with
him, feeling his heat beside me making me too hot, or listening to the cadence of his talk in his
matter-of-fact tone that infuriated me, or sitting with his heavy head on my shoulder as we
watched Netflix, so heavy the weight dragged me down and left me feeling stifled in the narrow
dorm room, there was a pricking like a thorn that handed me bitter thoughts, gestures, words that
I aimed at him with a spite that my rational mind would know to refute.
In my pottery studio I had picked up in the second semester, I began to form birds from
coils of clay, closed vessels with heavy chests and wings fastened to their sides. I had originally
imagined them in nests when completed, but when I stopped for the day I would always examine
the growing collection with a nagging concern scratching at the back of my mind. They were

Cook 5
fine. I thought they were proportioned right. But no matter which way I turned my head, they
always seemed to sit on their flat bottoms off-balance, tilting uncomfortably as though straining
away from each other. Compositionally, they refused to turn out, although in the past this
element had come to me so instinctively that I rarely gave it much thought. They didnt have any
promising spark that suggested they might grow to move, alive and vivid.
I would stare at them for a long time, which wasnt unusual, except that no solution
would come to me. I felt barren and tired. I couldnt remember why I had chosen this direction
for my project.
Eventually I would shake my head and gather my sculpting tools to finish cleaning up. It
was because I hadnt glazed them yet, I told myself. It was because I was used to working in two
dimensions, with color and value.
One night I dreamed that I was running. I never dreamed that I was flying, which I admit
doesnt make sense for someone obsessed with birds. I was running just down the street of the
suburbs outside campus. It was dark, but the sun was rising, and cool mist rose from the freshclipped lawns. The street was deserted this early in the morning, and I was so blissfully alone. As
I ran it wasnt in panic or desperation; there was no fleeing from some unknown horror or to one
last outpost of safety. It was triumphant as my legs beat against the ground, euphoric. The sun
lifted above the neatly shingled houses to blaze on my cheeks. I could feel like a magnet in my
chest the pull of the dorm room I had left, an orb of remembrance floating along with me until it
started to fade weaker as easily as the lifting fog, erased in the peaceful roundel of the dynamic
sun on the static neighborhood where I was the only thing in motion. The eclipsed pull left an
echoing white that grew until I felt light as air. And I kept running. My feet pounded across the
asphalt roadway, the yellow line spinning out below me, and I ran so fast that the ground
couldnt keep up with each fall of my feet, and I was weightless.
The Monday after, I was drowning in the sheer amount of work I had to finish for my lab
and studio classes. I had taken a biology test earlier that daywhich had gone flawlessly, but
had taken too much of my time to prepare for over the weekend. I had a critique on Tuesday for
my progress on my series of clay birds. And I wasnt sure if I would have time to sleep that
night.
I got a text from James. I hadnt spoken to him in person in a few days. My phone did its
heartbeat vibrate across the table.
When I looked at the screen, I read, Hey. Do you have time to meet up somewhere? Can
we talk?
I thought of everything I had left to do in that evening alone, and I resented him. I boiled
with annoyance. I had told him earlier that day that I felt stressed as it was. And I already knew
exactly what he wanted to talk about.
I stared at the text for a solid two minutes. Then I dropped the phone on the table and
walked out the door.
Outside, the cold night kissed my face and drew me further into the quiet campus center. I
kept walking. I didnt have a destination. I walked. Blindly, taking one turn and then the next
based on the way each wind blew past me. When I finally stumbled to a stop like waking up, I
realized that I had walked off campus and into the neighborhoods around it, just outside the
college town. I had stopped in the same part of the neighborhood where my dream started.
I stopped with my breath spiraling ghostlike in the orange light under the streetlamp. I
took an uneven drag of the cool air.

Cook 6
I didnt want to go back to campus. Not to James, not to my classes and my
responsibilities, not even back to my room. I stood in the crossroads of two suburban streets and
a cul-de-sac under the stale orange light between blue, angular shadows, and I considered
leaving. I would walk and keep walking. I wouldnt bring my phone. I had enough confidence in
my talents to know that I could figure out some new life, severed from this one. I pictured myself
running. Running until I flew.
Which was stupid.
I couldnt fly.
I took another deep breath, like a sigh, and turned around. I walked back toward campus.
As I walked along a less well-lit sidewalk with the road to my left and few thick pines
and bushes overgrowing the walk to my right, I heard a rustling in the trees beside me. My initial
thought was that it sounded like a bird in the branches, but there were no nocturnal birds that
could stand the light pollution of campus. Anything else should be asleep. That made no sense.
What are you looking for, birds or something?
I spun around, surprised. There was a man in a dark jacket standing behind me.
Hey, he said. He sounded college-aged.
Hello, I replied, guarded.
So, were you? he asked. He cracked a smile. Looking for birds.
No, I said shortly. I thought I heard something. Probably a cat.
Whats a girl like you doing out here so late, anyway?
Whats a guy like you doing? I returned. I slid a hand into my jean pocket as though
coincidentally. I remembered I had left my phone in the ceramics studio.
He laughed. His face was mostly in shadow. I couldnt tell if his eyes glinted with malice
or if it were only humor. Probably humor and nothing else. Probably harmless.
Walking back to campus, he answered me. That a crime?
I shrugged without an answer. I didnt want to be any more involved with the tedious
conversation, whatever it was supposed to be. I walked past him.
Whoa, hey, girl. He jogged to catch up with me. Got a name?
I rolled my eyes to ignore that my palms were sweating. What, was he going to follow me
now? You didnt tell me yours.
Rick.
Thats nice. I kept walking.
Dont be like that.
I have a boyfriend, I said. It sat on my tongue like a lie. He stopped trailing after me.
Well, sorry, he said, the edge of his annoyance carried to me on the night-cool air.
Bitch.
Apparently.
I didnt turn around until he went on his way.
Just on the edge of the nearest dormitory as I got closer to campus, as I walked past
parking lots off the sidewalk, my footsteps faltered.
James had just stopped on the pavement ahead of me. He had been hurrying, almost
running.
Audrey?
I returned to my usual pace and trudged his way.
I saw your phone on the table in the art center, he said as he closed the gap between us.
God, whered you go?

Cook 7
We came together under the circle of another streetlamp. The effect of a spotlight made
me feel acutely uncomfortable.
Walking, I managed to reply.
Well, I was looking for you. I wanted to He cut himself off and started to shrug off
his jacket. Youre not even wearing a sweatshirt. Do you want mine?
No, I said shortly. His choice in topic had snatched away any affection I felt over
seeing him there, looking for me. Im fine.
Come on, he insisted. Im not that coldI just ran across campus.
Im not that cold, either.
He laughed a little. I seethed at the reaction. Dont be stupid. Its just a coat.
Im not stupid, I retorted loudly. I heard it echo across the lawns on either side of the
street. Im not being stupid! I dont want your goddamn coat, all right?
Silence lapped in between us. James looked surprised. I wanted to walk away. I
desperately wanted to leave the situation behind and go on with my life like it had never
happened. But that would only make it worse, so we stood in the taut silence for a long space.
It was James who finally spoke up, with a sense of humor that suggested he was taking
charge of the conversation. It didnt make me any more pleased to be a part of it.
I guess that brings up what I wanted to talk about, he said in that jocular manner.
I started walking away.
Hold on, James interjected. He trotted in the same direction to cut me off. I didnt
meanlisten, can we just talk?
I have work to do, I said in a tight voice.
But youre out here in the middle of the night?
I didnt say anything.
Listen. He looked down. Were not reallyworking, are we?
I looked away from him. I hadnt expected him to be so direct. I
You pull away from me when I go to kiss you. We havent even had sex. I mean, Im not
trying to push it or anythingbutdo you find me attractive at all?
I felt my throat tighten. He sounded so concerned, even if he was nervous in the serious
moment, and his eyes looked bright and sensitive. I had spent so much of my time thinking he
didnt understand, not realizing that he had been cognizant of me the entire time, and I hadnt
been able to play my role well enough to fool him.
Youre definitely attractive, I said.
He looked at me for a long moment before he laughed under his breath. You know, I
dont get you.
A lift of relief. I didnt cry about most things. At that moment I felt like crying.
Im sorry if I ever
You havent done anything, I told him.
He still winced. And were not working, are we?
Again I was silent. He was right.
Im sorry, I said.
He nodded. Yeah, he agreed quietly. I didnt think so, either.
Sowhat now?
I dont know. Its over, isnt it?
Its over, I echoed.

Cook 8
Thenwell, thank you, he managed, like he was a businessperson in an interview,
thanking me for my time.
Thank you, I repeated, but I was done with the conversation. The way he had said that,
I knew why it hadnt worked. I had always known it wasnt going to work. We had both of us
been trying on the relationship based on calculations, theories; neither of us had wanted to
believe the simple fact that it would never get off the ground. And that wasnt because I was
wrong or broken or deficient. It felt like morning fog had lifted out of my eyes. We parted in
opposite directions, both of us back the way we had come. And I started laughing.
I needed to go back to the art center. I knew exactly what I had been doing wrong with
my heavy series.
Obviously, the birds needed to fly.
But I wasnt going back there now. I didnt have to sit still anymore, and I didnt have the
desire to. I veered from my path and back toward the streets outside campus, merged back into
the blue shadows and orange light and their blissfully cool uncertainty. I stopped just briefly in
the middle of a deserted crossroads, just to see James drifting out of sight around the next
building, into a parking lot.
And when he had rounded the corner and left me out of sight, I turned on my heels and I
ran, in wide and effortless springs, not to or from a thing.
Flying.