<span style="font-family: 'times new roman'">The day started for <a class="link link--external" href="https://i.imgur.com/DDJYEq9.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Morgen</a> like many others since arriving in Cambridge. Harvard University had succeeded in scooping up and buying properties from the Charles River out into the realms beyond Harvard Square, and that left few options for him to rent near the Graduate School of Design. He'd considered himself fortunate to have found the second story apartment on Ellery Street owned by the stern and cantankerous Mrs. Betty. Betty was, of course, her first name but she demanded respect even in the casual lull of informality. Morgen promised himself that of all the challenges that awaited him upon returning to the place of his educational youth, tangling with Mrs. Betty over rent would not be one of them. He offered to pay several months up front, just to get the harpy off his back; he had bigger fish to fry.<br/>
<br/>
Stepping back into the old haunt of Harvard felt like a cursed blessing -- a heavy mantle that should have comforted but only reminded him of the misery that inspired his flight to New York City upon graduating from architecture school all those years ago. Morgen had considered applying to other architecture schools, as the East Coast contained as many as Italian Delis. But, the road of his future created by his contacts led him back to the GSD -- which was the premier school in the country ... if not the world. Teaching, even for a few semesters, would be akin to placing a gold star upon his resume. He could do it; Morgen could survive the flagging discomfort and lingering memories of what could have been in order to earn a ticket to anywhere he wished. He'd always wanted to live in a Scandinavian country.<br/>
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Breakfast that morning was at Lee's diner, a rather unremarkable "greasy spoon" right off the main Square. The serving staff consisted of morose and un-engaging women from Jamaica, who acted subtly annoyed at having to wait the span of three seconds between asking what he wanted and his reply. It wasn't all that bad, though -- they, at least, were not rabid like the tenacious Mrs. Betty.<br/>
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Morgen stopped by the school, wandering around the "<a class="link link--external" href="https://i.imgur.com/jVhwopu.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">trays</a>" of his assigned students. Most sported smiles at the sight of him, speaking easily of their ideas for projects and adventures the evening before. Morgen knew that he was in their confidence when they asked if he wanted a drag of weed on the smoking balcony. He smiled like a kind uncle, politely declining and informing them to not get caught. He lamented for the students who were bottled up within themselves, sitting at their drafting table and staring at the vast, white expanse of paper that should have been the backdrop to an artifice that defied gravity. Creativity was like water, he'd tell them -- fear closes the spigot tight, and the trick is to simply start drawing. Morgen felt the most satisfaction helping young professionals who suffered from being closed off; they reminded him of himself.<br/>
<br/>
How many years had it been since he left that whole hot mess behind him? A ball of stress filled his chest at the thought of the memory. He knew that he had fled from the pain and injustice -- from the betrayal that would have left a black mark on his character and sense of personal honor. Betrayal, on two fronts: it made the devastation four-fold in magnitude. Who could really blame him for wanting to get the fuck out of Dodge? What would have been the point of digging in? Of fighting for a woman who did not want to be his? He liked to get his way, as was his nature, but the inalienable truth remained that any love that is forced is no love at all. <br/>
<br/>
Most men would have been overjoyed to learn that their female lovers were into chicks, because the next obvious step was to rope the other woman into a threesome. Maybe even a polyamory situation. Those thoughts never crossed Morgen's consideration, for he knew the truth about the dangers of intimacy. Having a "bi-curious" girlfriend meant that the number of threats, the number of people who could lure his Jourdan away doubled. The chorus of snarky hedonists would have labeled him "insecure" -- though the thing he feared came to pass. And, in spite of the fact that Jourdan could have talked to him but chose to deceive him, Morgen still laid the blame (after all these years) squarely in Freya's lap. Jourdan had been Morgen's girlfriend, while Freya was someone he <b>trusted</b>; and though Jourdan's betrayal hurt Morgen's heart more, Freya's selfishness incurred a treachery that went profoundly deep.<br/>
<br/>
Fuck them. Fuck them <i>BOTH</i>.<br/>
<br/>
Morgen could have continued negotiations and resolved the issue, but what then? Be reminded of his status as the boyfriend "who wasn't good enough"? That fucking wedding platter from Crate &amp; Barrel was the last they'd ever hear from him.<br/>
<br/>
But, Morgen had already been here a month without any run-ins. Granted, that was mostly due to him living either at the design school or home. Tonight was different, a night for old times sake. Morgen found himself feeling rather lively about the prospect of heading out for the night. John Harvard's was both the top and bottom of his list of places to visit for a pint. The sentiment and mystique won out, ultimately proving stronger than his aversion to reliving the past like a weak, simpering beta. He would face the memories and reclaim them as his own, he decided. And, who knew -- maybe he'd find another chance at love where the old one died on the vine. <br/>
<br/>
Morgen was already on his second pint, black marker scribbling on a dozen napkin-backs, when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He felt like ... he was being watched. Morgen looked up, his intense gaze leveling with penetrating austerity into the eyes of the two women he least wished to see again. The heart in his chest sank, and his stomach clenched with a mix of heinous emotions -- all raw and mingled. Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile and waved to them. The gesture -- clearly an ingrained behavior developed from soothing nerve-wracked first-year grad students -- came as a natural reaction to their "deer-in-headlight" appearance at the sight of him.<br/>
<br/>
He acknowledged the both of them, and that should have been enough. Morgen could have kicked himself for being so stupid, so predictable and moronic. If there was anywhere in Cambridge where the chance of meeting them was highest, it was precisely where he sat. <i>Christ, I'm even in the same damn table</i>, he inveighed to himself privately. He had proved himself the adult by cheerfully acknowledging them, whether they wished to run away or come visit would have been on them. But, something caused Morgen to want more. He never considered himself a cruel person, but the sight of them so suddenly and utterly affected by him made him feel ... well, jovial? <i>Schadenfreude</i>, anyone? <br/>
<br/>
All this time, Morgen had been convinced that Jourdan and Freya had traipsed on, leaving him in their wake, completely unaffected by their absolute selfishness. The thought that he affected them ... it was an awkward moment that he desperately desired to revel in. And, with that, Morgen waved them over to join him, his smile opening to something akin to merriment. When they approached, he stood and opened his arms to embrace them both and gauge their reactions. </span>