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desk and
took a seat next to her. There was hardly enough room for the two
of us: our arms brushed, her hair rested briefly on my shoulder, I
detected a slight fragrance of honey and rain. I had to take a
deep, steadying breath.
    “I have to write a three-page essay on Kant,”
she muttered.
    Well, that was enough to still my stuttering
heart.
    “Kant…” I said, allowing the name to linger
between us, hoping that its prolonged presence would hint at
something profound. She waited eagerly, eyes wide, mouth slightly
open. There were freckles around her nose, and I had the sudden
impulse to reach out and brush her beaming cheek with the back of
my hand.
    “Kant was a fraud,” I said at last.
    These were not the words she expected to
hear. Her lovely face scrunched up into a frown that compelled me
to look away.
    “I should clarify my words,” I said. “Kant
himself was not a fraud, but his philosophy has been used
fraudulently.”
    I peeked at Ashley, hoping that my second
attempt had made a better effect. She ignored what I said and began
reading to me the exact instructions of her assignment, something
about the modern era and the influences on ethical theory.
    “I’m sorry, Ashley, but I just remembered an
appointment I have with the chair of the history department.”
    She bumbled an apology mixed with some words
of thanks.
    “Perhaps we can continue this tomorrow,” I
said.
    “Thank you so much, Professor Willows.”
    I smiled, nodded, and excused myself. As I
left the library I was uncertain whether or not our meeting had
been a success. As I write these words, I am still uncertain.
    ~
    I could have been an Epicurean. I could have
whiled away my days in the philosopher’s garden, seeking happiness
beneath the brilliant light of ancient Greece.
    But then again, there is that bit about
friendship that held such a dear place in the philosopher’s heart.
Here I must diverge, I must sneak away, out of the garden, away
from the sunlight, into the reassuring shade of my own tree. For
all his wisdom, Epicurus was profoundly mistaken on this point.
Friendship is not a pleasure to be sought, but an affliction to be
avoided. It does not raise the individual to new heights, but
condemns him to communal mud. Isn’t it obvious, after all, that we
seek friendship as a refuge from ourselves? What greater betrayal
could there be?
    ~
    I look for Ashley in the library; I stand
outside the window of the underground girl’s apartment; I listen to
the lovemaking of my neighbors, every whisper, every wail. I’m so
lonely that my soul hurts. There is an ache in my chest, sometimes
strong enough to suppress my breath and still the beating of my
heart. I turn to these pages, to my pen and the promise of truth
turned to lies, but I am unable to create what does not already
exist inside me.
    When I was young I sustained my solitude with
stories, fictional futures in which I came to possess everything I
lacked. But now the future has arrived, and I am still lacking in
everything I desired. Can I continue my storytelling? Can I
continue to suspend the truth? Only, I fear, by surrendering to
lies forever.
    ~
    I’ve received a letter from a lawyer, a slimy
man who happens to represent both the mayor and the governor. It
seems I may have made a slight mistake: though my name remains a
secret, my address is known. I might have been a bit careless, or
overconfident, perhaps, when I sent in my second essay. Not wanting
to see the success of Mr. Willows escape me, I included my address
with my submission. How else would the newspaper—and the editors
and agents, for that matter—contact me when they wanted more of my
work?
    But somehow this lawyer—an aptly named Mr.
Grimes—got hold of my address and is now threatening to sue me for
libel. He has perverted my intentions as only a lawyer can. I’m
being blamed not just for gross dishonesty, but for my “disgusting
attempts to damage the characters of two noble