“The ancient Mayans said humans didn’t have souls, they said we are souls, what we have are bodies.”
Winnie loved this quote. Her fingers caressed the words on the sunlit page of her 1941 second edition of “Religions of the World.” She lay curled in her reading nook by the bay window overlooking the perennial garden. She lived on the third floor of a Tudor home built in roughly the same era as the book in her hand. What was once a grand house on the most well-to-do boulevard North of downtown, was now divided into five apartments in what was a charming, but decaying neighborhood. The bay window was original, and the diamond grilles and warped glass bathed her bare legs in intricate shadows. The nook was drafty in the winter, but gloriously warm in summer, and if it got too hot, she would unlatch both side windows and breathe in the lavender from the garden below.
She pulled off her black-rimmed glasses and got out her journal to scribble down this new insight on her page of quotes. She was nineteen years old – the age when quotes resonated with maximum profundity, when one possesses all the cognitive faculties of an adult yet none of the hard-won wisdom. Most importantly, her spirit was not yet conquered by the responsibilities of life. You could see this in her eyes – deep pools of pure, innocent emotion, not yet dimmed by necessity. She was still alive enough inside to cry from watching viral videos of rescued dogs.
She was just laying pen to paper when interrupted by a knock on the door: Two polite strikes, but of a pitch so low as to reveal the heft and weight of the hand – unmistakably male.
She hadn’t had human contact all day. It was two weeks into summer vacation and her roommates – all fellow students at Holy Trinity College, had gone to their respective homes, leaving Winnie to hold down the fort. They all hailed from large metropolitan areas – Chicago, Atlanta, and Houston – cities with enough gravity to pull a body back. Winnie was from Yazoo, Mississippi. Her father was pastor of the Yazoo City Church of God which boasted three hundred and fifty parishioners every Sunday morning, in a town of two hundred and fifty. It was a good childhood, all things considered, but after stretching her legs into adulthood for two semesters, the idea of returning felt like a step backwards.
She pulled a light knit sweater off the sofa and scooted her arms through in a symbolic attempt to retain some modicum of modesty and made her way down a flight of stairs. As she approached the door, she glanced at her reflection in the glass-covered art on the wall—it was a 36-inch mixed media piece consisting of a watercolor background reminiscent of a blue green ocean behind what looked like a scientific illustration of a sea turtle. It was her own work — one of two which she had only recently summoned the courage to display. She ran a hand through her hair and studied her complexion in the glass. She was seldom pleased with her appearance but always felt better in casual garb, or when she was caught unawares because it gave her the feeling that she had some excuse for not being perfect. It was the formal occasions she dreaded: the understood assumption that she was trying her hardest at being beautiful and not living up to the task.
She peeked through the peephole and what followed was a cacophony of mixed reactions, as if every part of her body was in disagreement. Her pupils dilated but her eyes narrowed with skepticism. Her fists clenched but she rose to tiptoes – almost levitating. There was, of course, only one thing on Earth that could cause such a panoply of reactions: It was her nemesis.
Every superhero has a nemesis. And Winnie was fairly certain, like most 19-year-old girls, that she was a superhero of some sort, even if her powers were not yet revealed to her.
A nemesis is quite different from an ordinary enemy. For starters, you can have only one. And they must meet a number of criteria to earn their title. First: they must be a worthy opponent. The man on the other side of the door was worthy indeed. He was what her roommates liked to call the “alpha male” of 414 Blackstone Boulevard. His name was Rowan Collins. He was the twenty-one-year-old son of the landlord and handled the maintenance for the building. He carried what could only be his father’s toolbox, a beast of black metal with rusty corners.
Winnie was not the type to be impressed with alpha males, the very notion reminded her of a pack of baboons. She was more interested in the betas; the boys she would see at 11 pm on the 4th floor of the library, with over-sized noses and imperfect complexions. Not only were they more attainable, but more interesting as well, a win-win in her book.
But even she had to confess, the term fit him. He was a good foot taller than her, had the shoulders of a lumberjack, the back of a rower, and the chest of a lifeguard. Indeed, all three were commonly on display in the spring, as he would often work bare-chested, digging some trench, erecting some fence, or some other sort of manual labor suited to a 1940s man in a black and white photograph.
Winnie met this ostentatious display of muscles with eye-rolling so severe, one wondered if she might lose her eyes in the back of her head. But to her roommates – fellow freshman girls of Holy Trinity College, it was delightfully scandalous. Not the act of a man going shirtless, which was routine, but the fact that they had collectively decided to enjoy it so much. It had become a regular Sunday activity after chapel: spend the morning in touch with the divine, and in the afternoon, gather around the windows to view the garden of carnal delights. Indeed, they seemed to relish in their objectification as though making up for eons of patriarchal rule and objectification of the female body by speaking about him in the most lavishly licentious terms possible. They each had a nickname for him. Kat called him “The Jaguar” because of his smooth gait and confident stride. Jess referred to him as the “The Pagan Beast” because he apparently hadn’t attended a single mandatory chapel all year. Miyuki, who perhaps had less imagination than her roommates, simply called him “The hottest man in the world.”
It should go without saying, these girls employed a good deal of hyperbole. He was not the hottest man in the world by any objective measure. But one could at least fashion an argument that he was the hottest man in Anderson Indiana, which was the girl’s world. It likely helped that the girls were at the age where they were primed to see beauty in the opposite sex, even if it wasn’t always there.
While they were adoring him from afar, the trio of senior girls on the first floor were more bold; they made a habit of sunbathing in his general vicinity every Sunday. Bikinis were not allowed on campus at Holy Trinity, but they were a good mile and a half away from their antiquated taskmasters. Winnie’s roommates looked upon this with disdain: as though feminine allure was currency – and they were flooding the market, devaluing the feminine dollar.
If Rowe was impressed by the sunbathing beauties, he did not show it. He carried on in the rarefied air as though he were above all this nonsense—exactly the position in which Winnie imagined herself. This brings us to the second quality of a nemesis. A nemesis must be connected to you in some way: that is to say, you must share a similarity or affinity for something that inextricably binds you together. Indeed, it should be quite easy to imagine another life in which you were best of friends. This makes it far more tragic than having a mere enemy who can be ignored.
So, while Winnie was utterly unimpressed with Rowe’s body (after all, his body was merely something he had), she had to admit, she found his mind intriguing. He was a math major already accepted to grad school for medical informatics at Brown next year, which is saying something, given Holy Trinity’s unheralded reputation amongst the east coast elite. In fact, as if to outdo her beta boys on the 4th floor at the library, Winnie had found him, late one night, on the fifth floor of the library. This was nothing more than an attic filled with old paper-bound journals which had all since been digitized. But it possessed a dormer where Winnie liked to sit and stare out the frost-covered window at the moonlit snow-covered campus, dotted with glowing yellow sidewalk lights. It was quite clear this attic was off-limits to students, so you might imagine her surprise when she found him, legs reclined, wearing a toboggan hat, in her seat – reading a large leather-bound book in his lap, taking a break every now and then to stare out her window, as if pondering a new theory of relativity, or studying humans from afar as E.O. Wilson might study ants. She studied him from between the stacks for a length of time that was more than “spying” but less than “stalking.” It was his wistful stare that captured her attention. Intelligence was not altogether uncommon, but thoughtfulness… the humility… the vulnerability of uncertainty required to actually ponder upon things – that was rare indeed. Vulnerability is not a trait commonly associated with alpha males, but Winnie knew better—it takes supreme confidence to make oneself vulnerable.
This brings us to the third and final quality of a nemesis. There is, between every superhero and their nemesis, a defining moment that creates an unbreachable rift: one that forever puts the two on different (and yet intersecting) paths. For Winnie, this happened one week into the second semester of her freshman year. The first semester of organic chemistry is done entirely on paper, the second semester entirely in the lab. This necessitates the assignment of lab partners. Winnie, through a happen-chance glance at the teacher’s notebook, while asking him for help with a problem, noticed that she and Rowe were assigned to the first bench. This was only natural; they sat next to each other and also shared the highest grade in the class. So, you might imagine her surprise, that on day one of the second semester, after a seen but unheard conversation in hushed tones between Rowe and the professor, he walked right past her to the last lab bench and sat next to positively banal but impossibly beautiful Allison Graham.
What exactly was it, Winnie mused, that made her so unbearable that he couldn’t be forced to sit in close proximity to her twice a week? He could not feign ignorance; he was among the very first people she met at Holy Trinity: He was the one that showed her the ancient Tudor home in which she stood. They also shared a class together. Indeed, she had the unmistakable feeling that they had “hit it off.”. She liked who she was around him – she felt witty and on her game whenever they engaged in friendly banter. There was that moment only a week into their relationship when he was whistling the Beatles Do You Want to Know a Secret, and as he drifted off, getting lost in his book, she picked up the melody with her pitch-perfect whistle of her own – triggering a sly smile between them in a crowded room. They would share knowing looks when someone postulated a theory that was embarrassingly incorrect. He had even caught her once when she missed a step heading back to the courtyard – his arm so cartoonishly strong and chest so rock hard that it drew attention to just how gentle he was as he righted her. The thought of how impossible the mismatch was of strength and tenderness commonly reoccurred to her as she lay in bed at night.
A mere day before he had requested the switch, she had her longest conversation with him yet, sharing details of her childhood. They were studying the chemistry of neurons, and after class they sat in the courtyard and ate lunch together. She confided in him that she had an overactive sympathetic nervous system and how one day, in seventh grade, the first question a student asked after her oral report was “why was her face so red?”
To make her feel better, he relayed a story about leaving sweaty hand prints on the back of his middle school crush’s dress after slow dancing to “A Thousand Years” at Winter formal.
They laughed and flirted. They had checked off every box that two people check off before starting a relationship… and he chose to end the pursuit. So, it couldn’t have been because of what he didn’t know. It had to be what he did know. The sting hurt, and as so often is the case turned to anger. She resented his muscle-bound body and intellectual good looks, but most of all she hated the obsequious attention he got from every girl on campus. He became a “dumb jock” in her mind. Of course, he wasn’t dumb, but she told herself, if she could beat him on the final exam, at least, she could declare that he wasn’t up to her standards.
These were the thoughts bubbling to the surface as she clicked the lock and opened the door. There he was in all his glory, his height literally forcing him to look down his nose at her.
“Hey,” his voice was soft but deep.
“Hey,” she kept her tone flat – she knew full well that girls raised the pitch of their voice and added a hint of absurd feminine melody when addressing him. She was not going to give him that satisfaction.
“Sorry for botherin’ you,” he spoke. A wounded pain came over his face as if he really was sorry.
“That’s okay,” she said, already feeling herself warm to him, despite herself and somehow angry about it.
“I’m putting in a new lamp post in the garden and I need to get to your electrical box.”
She paused, just long enough for him to think she was considering a refusal.
“All right.”
He stepped through the door. In the back of her mind, Winnie mused on how large men were, and how rare it was to have one in her apartment.
“How’s your summer?” he asked, putting a little uncharacteristic melody into his own deep voice.
She could have told him that it took about three days for blissful solitude to morph into unbearable loneliness, but this would involve sharing… breaking down her walls… opening doors she had decided to keep shut. So instead, she mumbled, “Okay.”
“You still workin’ on your project?” he nodded to her computer monitor displaying a video editor interface showing various interviews.
Since Winnie had decided to stay over the summer, she managed to convince her favorite professor, Dr. Zimmerman, the most liberal-minded, and the only woman in the theology department to allow a 3-credit independent study. It was a video project entitled, “What is God” and consisted of over a dozen interviews of people of all faiths and nationalities answering that very question. Currently, a fifty-year-old white woman in a headscarf was on screen.
Something about the fact that Rowe remembered her project annoyed her. She recalled the conversation when she shared the idea with him. It seemed a lifetime ago. At the time, she had planned to interview him. But now, she felt betrayed that he even knew about her project – it was too dear to her. It was her baby.
“You never asked to interview me,” he offered – clearly trying to lighten the mood.
She wasn’t going to let him break this ice. She just managed a faint smirk as though he were joking.
Rowe forced a smile but turned back to work. He opened the electrical box and studied it, but seemed unimpressed, walking back to the front door.
“I don’t want to turn your power off,” he said, “so you see this switch?”. He pointed to a light switch by the door.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t flip it up or I’ll die.”
Winnie nodded. “Flip this switch to kill you.”
He pushed some air through his nose and smirked. “I’m serious now.”
“Okay, I won’t touch it,” she mischievously pointed to the wrong switch.
“This one,” he said with a smirking grin – aware she was toying with him and seemingly enjoying it.
She found she was grinning back at him – but she caught herself – remembering she wasn’t supposed to be having fun. She hated that it was so easy with him. She liked who she was around him – that’s what made it even worse. He hadn’t rejected her bad side, he rejected her at her best.
He returned to the garden and began his work, installing a lamp post. She peered through the diamond grilles and warped glass, preparing to roll her eyes.
“Go ahead and take your shirt off Mr. Muscles, no one gives a hoot,” she said to herself. What is a body anyways? she mused. As if on cue, Rowe reached back with a single hand, grabbed the back of his T-shirt, and in one swift movement, pulled it over his head, baring his chest and tight torso before he picked up a post hole digger. She rolled her eyes. Just the cocky manner in which he removed his shirt annoyed her. Who did he think he was anyhow? So, you’re athletic, big deal, she thought as she studied him driving the tool into the ground. Just how and where did he acquire this body she wondered? Swimming seemed like a good bet; despite the bulk of his muscles, they were well suited to him in an altogether sleek package. He did fill those shorts out nicely. For a moment, she wondered how curious it’d be if he routinely took off not only his shirt but his shorts as well when he worked in the summer sun. Wouldn’t that be odd? If it were socially acceptable for men to work in the nude? She blinked hard, wondering how she went from such disdain to imagining him totally naked.
Winnie was a bit odd when it came to sex. As the one of the daughters of the Yazoo City Church of God, she was the poster child for purity – the quintessential good girl – taught from a young age that anything that feels good must be bad, and also taught that men were not to be trusted. She might, with a few more social science classes under her belt, come to see that sort of attitude as a vestigial holdover from eons of a patriarchal society that viewed girls as but vessels for men’s genes. But right now, she was merely in the fumbling in the dark; the scaffolding of her Puritan upbringing cracking and swaying under the weight of reality, but the safety net of maturity was not yet woven.
She was raised as a Baptist and was currently pursuing a double major in psychology, and theology, with a minor in art. To say religion was important to her was an understatement. But while she may have been the quintessence of purity when it came to moral propriety, she was something of a misfit outcast in the Christian community of Yazoo City. She earned this reputation in 2016, when, as a freshman at Covenant Christian Academy, she published an op-ed in the school’s newspaper, arguing Donald Trump represented the antithesis of Christian values and encouraged her fellow citizens to vote against him. For this sin, she might as well have been forced to wear a scarlet letter. In some ways, this made her stronger – strengthening her stubborn streak, but it also created issues with trust. The idea that those she thought she knew so well, were in fact, so different than she could imagine, left an indelible impression upon her 15-year-old psyche that she held to this day.
Indeed, her issues of trust extended to herself. She was aware of the disconnect between her cognitive faculties and her more hedonistic impulses. She wanted her brain to rule over her body, not vice-versa.
So while her eyes did linger on him working in the yard, she recoiled at the idea that a part of her found him attractive. This was, after all, her nemesis. She would not soon forget the disservice he had done, she longed to be rid of him, but now that he was here, she found it impossible to concentrate on her book.
Thankfully, it was no more than thirty minutes by the time he had returned to her door, shirt back on. His knock was firm but gentle.
She opened the door but let him speak first.
“All done.”
“You’re still alive.”
“Thanks to you… I guess I owe you my life now?”
Now she pushed some air through her nose and smirked – but again caught herself, putting up the wall.
He hesitated as though he had planned to say something but was having second thoughts. It was odd to see him like this, a lack of confidence incongruent with his alpha male reputation. Finally, the words pushed their way through his doubts.
“Summerfest is tonight… I don’t know if you’re… I was thinking of heading down to see my buddy Greg’s band, if you’re interested?”
It bears mentioning at this moment that Winnie did not, in fact, beat him on the final exam. Granted it ought not to be expected for her to outscore him, considering that he was going to grad school for medical informatics and she was studying psych, theology, and art. She was taking organic chemistry for no other reason than to fulfill her one science credit since she tested out of regular chemistry. But she was never able to get the upper hand on him… until now. For this ephemeral moment, he wanted to be with her, and it only seemed that turnabout was fair play.
“I can’t,” she said. “I have to… read,” she let the words lie flat and false – there was – somewhere inside her, a desire to make it sting.
It was a feeling that was altogether unsatisfying. In fact, it was downright uncomfortable. It didn’t feel like her and she regretted it almost immediately. In her mind’s eye, she knew, of course, this man wasn’t her nemesis. A part of her had always known that was an elaborate ruse generated as a defense mechanism. But 19-year-old girls know many conflicting truths. It is the age, incidentally, at which point one has the most neural connections in their brain. Neural connections grow and flower like a tree throughout childhood, reaching full bloom at 19, and then adulthood is spent pruning it into a manageable shape: rejecting bad ideas and embracing good ones. Commonly travelled footpaths through the garden of the mind become efficient roads and those less travelled are overgrown and lost forever. So, the idea she would be full of conflicting emotions, thoughts, and theories was not only understandable but also unavoidable, her pruning had just begun, and she was, for all purposes, lost in the woods.
There was an interminable pause, every millisecond giving the words more weight until finally, he broke the silence.
“All right,” he nodded, absorbing this new information. “Maybe next time,” he added the words as a mere formality – smoothing over the barbs so they could both leave on cordial terms.
She wanted to say, “Yeah” but it seemed incongruent. She managed a nod.
He turned to go, and she closed the door, leaning her back against it, unsure of what had just transpired.