#doomed to repeat

You dodge around the oncoming stampede, clinging to your modest assortment of groceries in the crinkling paper bag. It's a tight wire walk back to your apartment as you're crowded on all sides.

You're invisible among the city's rush, as you are in most rooms. You've aged past relevance. You don't mind so much, at times, the obscurity is your best ally.

You follow the flow of pedestrians across the fading white lines of the crosswalk. A taxi honks, a whistle goes up, and sirens echo somewhere down the block.

"Hey, lady!" The voice startles you. Are they talking to you. "You dropped this?"

You look down in a panic. You feel your purse on your hip. It can't be you.

You spin and a man's shoulder bounces off of yours. You stagger, struggling to keep your balance as the bag tears down the front. The man barrels past you. Just like he didn't see you, he didn't notice the speed bump of your existence.

You look down as several items fall onto the pavement around you. You get down to gather them up, watching helplessly as your loaf of sourdough is crushed under the feet of passerbys. Pigeons flock to devour the ruin.

"Ow!" The same man blusters.

You glance over your shoulder as you put the block of butter atop the load still in the bag. You see him hit his ass on the sidewalk as another man marches past him. You cower as you realises he's coming toward you.

He stoops to scoop up the small wheel of gouda wrapped in wax. He's agile and undeterred by the tides around him. He squats down in front of you and places the cheese in the bag. He surveys the damage to the paper.

"Some people got no manners," he mutters.

"You don't have to..." you protest as you stack the groceries carefully. "I can manage, sir."

You look up at his face and blink in recognition. You feel oddly intrusive, stalkerish. Most people would recognise him in the city. You know him from a couple books stacked on your second shelf.

You shake it off. "Ahem," you clear your throat. "Thanks, sir. I'll get it."

"Here," he slides the bag away from you and puts the open side against his chest. He lifts it easily. You rub your lower back as you straighten up. "Got it."

"Oh, no, you can't... it's nice but..."

"Don't mind. I got nowhere to be right now."

You stare at him, trying to contain your doubt. War hero, state representative, and avenger has nothing going on? You're more than certain Bucky Barnes is full of it.

"Really," he insists. "Point me in the right direction." He glances around. "Stay close. Don't wanna lose ya."

"Um, alright," you surrender. Don't trust strangers, you're well past that lesson, but he's not exactly that, is he?

You give him one last look. He wears a pair of dark aviators and he's dressed down in a denim jacket and dark slacks. Still, you see right through it, even with the cap over his hair.

You turn and continue forward. He's close as he walks with his shoulder just behind yours, the bag rubbing on your arm.

"I can tell you know who I am," he drawls. "Can I get a name?"

You nod and look ahead into the sea of people. You recite your name on habit alone.

"I gotta commend you on your choice in cheese. I like the brand, but I'm more partial to their havarti." He says.

"Oh, um... yeah... I'm supposed to cut back on dairy..." you murmur cluelessly. "Not that you would... you know, I don't think groceries are within your purview. You probably have more important things to deal with."

"Not right now," he repeats.

"Here," you point up the alley.

You turn and he follows. You reach into your purse, instinctively looking back as you search for your keys. You pass under the fire escape and stop at the door. You step up the creaky old stairs and shove the brass one in the slot. He lingers behind you.

"Think I can take it from here, Representative Barnes."

"Bucky, please. I'm off the clock."

You face him and reach for the bag. He makes no move to hand it over. You step down the stair between you. "I got it."

He stares at you, a dimple in his cheek.

"You've done your good deed and helped an old lady carry her bag," you assure him dryly. "You're free to go."

You wrap your arms around the bag. He lets go and you cradle it carefully to balance the contents. His gaze makes you sweat. Or maybe that's the hormones.

"Old? You're spry as a spring chicken," he chuckles.

"Uh huh," you lift a brow. "Well, you carry your age much better than me." You back up and awkwardly extend your hand from beneath the bag. You twist the key and push inside. You pause just past the door. You angle back. "Thanks again, Bucky."

"See ya around," he says your name. "You know, I think the big thing these days is those reusable bags. Sturdier."

"Thanks, I'll see what I can find," you nearly snort. "You should probably get back to the rest of your constituency."

"Gah, guess I gotta," he spins on his heel. "I did swear some oath or another."

He strides off down the alley, a casual slant in his shoulders. You watch him, almost amused, leaning back to keep an eye on him. You're envious. He's gotta be twice your age, technically, and he looks more than a decade younger. You're not so concerned with your looks but you wonder if maybe that serum of his might help with the menopause.

He stops at the end of the alley. He looks back and waves. You flinch, caught, and hide inside. You let the door shut behind you and harrumph at the staircase ahead of you. Your knees will remind you that his words were just flattery.

🌆

"This week, let's focus on the upcoming assignment. Reflect on the last few lectures when discussing the pre-war foundations for conflict. Remember, this isn't just about military force, this is social, economic, and cultural. Try to weave together the world when contextualizing your thesis."

You speak to the Zoom classroom split into a grid of faces. Your students look well past their limit and you have to admit, you're there. "And don't forget office hours and that my email is always open for questions." You smile. "Until next time. Have a great week everyone."

A litter of byes come as slowly the students trickle out. You miss the in-person format but everything is shifting, everyone is moving past you. You weren't always this stagnant. Once, you were a blooming flower. Now, you're wilted and content to sway with the breeze.

You exit the meeting room and log off. You make a few notes for next week's lecture then put your laptop to sleep. It's after five and you're tired but you can't keep finding excuses. That walking pad is going to get dusty and the doctor said exercise will help with the hormones. Most of his recommendations only add to your discomfort.

You go into your bedroom and change into some running shorts and a loose tee. The effort of lifting your arch tugs tightly. Your shoulder's still sore from the other day. That guy really knocked you around. You rub the tender muscle and sigh. 

You're not a sprinter but you do work up a sweat at a brisker pace of walking. You stretch as you look for a podcast to listen to. You enjoy the one about the tragic monarchs... always a nice companion to your own suffering.

Before you can hit play, a dull thumping gives you pause. You move closer to the door. Mr. Kryzcky opens his door with a grunt.

"Oh, hi, I was looking for..." the voice drawls your name. "Think I got the wrong one."

Another grunt from the old man next door and the slam of his door. A soft laugh sounds. You go to the door and keep the chain on. You think you remember that voice, from more than just your unlucky meeting.

You open up and peek out. Bucky glances over and turns to face you with a grin. "Ah, there you are."

"I'm here," you say skeptically.

"I didn't have your number so couldn't call ahead," he comes closer. He's in one of those nice suits you see him wear at his press conferences. His long hair is parted and combed back away from his face.

"Okay?" Your confusion inflects upwards.

"Right, uh, I guess maybe my clearance won't work everywhere," he chuckles. "I wanted to check in."

"Check in? Well, I'm just fine, Representative."

"Bucky," he corrects. "How's the shoulder?"

"Not as strong as yours," you nod to his left arm.

"Yeah, you're standing a bit..." he raises his hand and angles it. "You're favouring that side."

"I take advil," you shrug and wince. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you."

"I didn't interrupt dinner, did I?"

"Uhhhh, nope. Just... not quite sure you can call it a workout but I was going to get my steps in," you say.

"Have you eaten?" He wonders.

You frown. You exhale as you shake your head. "I just got done class."

"Class? What are you taking?"

You snort. "I see why people like you."

"Some," he snickers. "Can I buy you dinner? I'm here and... starving."

Your eyes list over. You consider the offer. You're wary of it. Not quite sure why he'd come back. Did you give off that vibe? That you're desperate for company? You get lonely since your husband left but you've adapted.

"I don't like eating alone and if I don't eat in a car, I'm eating in an empty condo," he snorts. "So... have a little pity for an old war vet?"

"Playing on those heartstrings. You about to ask for a campaign donation?"

He snickers. "Maybe next time."

"Right..." you slowly shut the door and slide back the chain. Before you can open it again, your chest stirs. Your place is small, a bit cluttered, but not dingy or dirty. Still, it's been a while since you had company. Well, you never did here.

You open up and step back. Bucky enters as he smooths his hair. You shut the door softly. He bends to unlace his leather shoes.

"You don't have other friends? Like Cap?"

"Sam? Nah, he's got a girl." Bucky slips his foot out. "And he's always cranky when he gets back in town. You know, he really puts up a front for the cameras."

He takes his other shoe off as you look down. You hide one leg behind the other. The shorts are meant for the privacy of your home.

"I'll get changed." You sidle away.

"Don't gotta dress up for me. You know, if you wanna do your workout, I'll just muddle around," he stands up and slips off his jacket.

"Um, no it's fine. Later." You retreat quickly to the bedroom.

You pull on a pair of loose pants over the shorts. Good enough. As you emerge, you find Bucky at the large antique bookshelf against the far wall. His back is to you as his head is tilted. You cautiously cross to him.

"Where'd you get this stuff?"

You near him and look over the disarmed pistols; a luger, an enfield, and a colt. Below, there are a few grenades and some empty shells. Your collection is small but a point of pride.

"Around." You say.

"A collector?"

"Suppose some would say a historian but I just teach it."

"Ah, class," he points his finger. "Right."

"I guess seeing this stuff like this must be a little... weird for you."

"Mm, not really. Need more room on that shelf, I won't fit." He taps it and laughs. "So, dinner? In the mood for anything?"

"Didn't think about it." You slowly inch away.

"Pizza?" He suggests.

"Can't go wrong." You agree. "Let me find my wallet."

"My treat," he insists and peers around. "Just you then?"

"Um, yep." You cover your barren left hand. "More room for books."

"Makes sense," he clucks and pulls out his phone. "Pepperoni?"

"Whatever you like." You reply. You won't mention that it gives you heartburn. He offered to pay after all.

"I'm more interested in what you like, so... you a veggie girl?"

"Girl? I don't think anyone's called me that in a while," you scoff. "Cheese is fine with me. I'm easy like that."

"Music to my ears," he taps the phone. "Spend all day trying to please everyone..." He turns as the line picks up. "Hey, could I get a large double cheese..."

“Oh, really, you don’t have to.” You grab the sides of the plate as he reaches for it. “It’s two dishes.” 

“Fine with me. Quick work.” He insists. 

He frees the porcelain from your grasp.  You let go of the thrift store find, the chip on the edge brushing your fingertip. You used to have nice dishes. Nice scalloped plates with flowers painted around the brim. 

“Thanks, er...” 

“Relax,” he says. “Think I can handle some soap and water.” 

He goes into the small kitchen. You listen to him flip the faucet on. You shift in the chair and stand, restless. You follow him and hover in the door frame. As the water laps into the sink, he rolls up his sleeves. 

“You can just leave them there--” 

“Ma taught me manners.” He turns to look at you over his shoulder. 

You nod and lean on the doorway. It’s not just who he is that’s surreal, it’s someone else being there. Someone helping. Even before it all fell apart, that wasn’t typical. You took care of Walter; the house; you kind of forgot about yourself. 

“Tell me more about that class of yours. World War Two... battles? Home front? All of the above?” He asks. 

Again, that’s new. No one asked about that. Before the divorce, it was a forgotten specialty, more of a hobby. 

“Neither... home front, I suppose. It’s about the leadup to the war.” 

“Ah, interesting. Funny how far back those things go. I mean, you could go all the way back to the first big one. That makes sense but then that means you need to poke around the causes of that one. And you can’t just blame it all on a wrong turn. Hapsburgs go back a millenia there abouts. But then there’s the acceleration of military technology, tensions between the classes, all that and on and on. Soon you’re talking about the Romans.” 

He chuckles and you tilt your head. You can’t help but agree with the sentiment. It’s never just as simple as yesterday. There are many days that come before that. 

He sets the plates in the rack and shuts off the tap. He drains the sink as he dries his hand. Your eyes snag on the metal one. You catch yourself as he waves at you. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“Nah. It’s still strange to me,” he makes a fist then open his fingers. “You know, every morning I wake up and expect to see my own hand. So I take the thing off. Too weird.” 

“Right,” you bite your lip thoughtfully. 

“Hey, really. It stopped being a sore spot decades ago. I got all fixed up and a snazzy arm. I got nothing to complain about,” he shrugs. 

“Still, it’s not polite to stare,” you turn away. 

“Then you must think I’m a real hound.” 

You look at him and shake your head, “what do you mean?” 

He chuckles. “Well, I just told on myself.” He crosses the kitchen. “I stared. A little.” 

His eyes flick down and you follow them. Somehow, you didn’t notice. You were too distracted; by him. Your bright pink sports bra is visible as the loose work out top slumps down your chest. It’s not that bad. Not like you can see much. It flattens more than it lifts. 

“Oh, uh,” you tug it up and back away. “Just fabric.” 

His cheek dimples. “I got a question, prof.” 

You retreat into the living room as he follows, “sure.” 

“I gotta pay to sit in on one of these classes?” 

“Typically. Most of my students are in a degree program. They pay tuition but... you could audit, if you wished. If you have the time.” You stand behind the armchair, shielding yourself from him. 

“I’m interested. I’ll make time.” 

“I’ll send you the schedule,” you offer. 

“Great,” he grins and lowers himself onto the couch. He checks his watch. He sighs and stretches his neck. “Gimme a few. I’ll get outta your hair.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes. “Pizza always makes me sleepy.” 

“Alright,” you sidle away from the chair. “I’ll pack you the pizza to go. I won’t eat it.” 

He hums and covers his mouth as he yawns. You circle the room as you keep your distance. You go back to the dining room and pick up the pizza box. You peek at him as you head to the kitchen. He’s undisturbed. 

You find a container big enough for the remaining slices. You pop the lid on and flatten the box. You come out with the leftovers and slow as you approach Bucky. 

His snores rumble through the apartment. You raise your hand over his shoulder but stop yourself from waking him. You recoil as if you’ve been slapped. You remember how Walter was when you woke him. Never happy. Well, did anything ever make him happy? 

You stand dumbly beside the couch. You can’t imagine how tired he must be. With his job. Two jobs really. You hear he still goes out and does the whole hero thing. 

You go to the kitchen and shove the container in the fridge. You’ll wait him out. You return to the front room and grab the thick volume you’ve been plucking away at. A translation of German articles about the SS. Grim. 

You sit in the armchair by the lamp and cradle your chin as you dive in. Your eyes are itchy in minutes. You’re exhausted. You yawn and shift in the chair. 

You finish the chapter and let the page close around your finger. You blink and look at Bucky. He’s still sleeping. His snores don’t relent. 

You let your eyes shut. Just for a moment. You just need to find your second wind. It sweeps through you and you slump to the side. You’re asleep before the book slips from your lap. 

🌆

The startling recollection of drifting off in the armchair while you waited for your guest to rouse hits you like cold water. You sit up on the couch. You don't know how you got there. 

You peek over at the armchair then down as you feel a coolness graze your arms. The throw blanket gathers around your waist. You search the apartment in the dim light of morning. You get up to do so with more than just your eyes. 

There's a slip of paper tucked in between the front door and the frame. It's locked but you're certain Bucky's gone. The apartment isn't big enough for him to be hiding. 

'Had a good night, prof. Sorry I tapped out. See ya in class.' 

Short, simple. A perfect thesis and conclusion. You fold it up and go to the kitchen. You leave it on the counter. Most people would text. Well, he isn't most people. 

You make your coffee. Black. No sugar, no dairy. You can have your caffeine or your sweets. You depend on the former. 

You drink alone at the table. You stare out the window as the hazy sunlight slowly rises over the city. You cup your chin as you lose yourself in the horizon. 

Last night is like a fever dream. If it wasn't for the pinch in your hips from falling asleep on the armchair, you'd doubt it yourself. Bucky Barnes darkening your doorway. Why? 

You sigh and finish the dregs, a few stray ground sticking to your tongue. You rinse the cup and linger at the sink. The scene from the night before returns to you; Bucky at your sink, washing the dishes. When did your husband ever bother? 

You try not to think about him or then. Still, you can't just forget nearly half your life. 

The restlessness sets in. You need to do something. Well, that walking pad isn't going to use itself. You pay it flat and change into fresh workout clothes. It hardly matters, you're just going to sweat through them anyway. 

You get on the pad and start the timer on your phone. You might not be a super soldier but you don't have to be a schlub. You'll try to keep your creaky old body going for just a bit longer before it completely breaks down. 

💻

Your laptop is on the table. The waiting room is open on Zoom as you do your last-minute prep. Slides, notes, water. The first lecture of the year you forgot the latter and found your voice creaky by the end. 

You check your phone one last time. Bucky said he planned on attending this one since the next week that class had independent work time in lieu of a lecture for their midterm essays. He hasn’t texted since. You sent the invite but he hasn’t joined the waiting room. Well, you expect he has better things to do. Governing and ll.

You’ll have to start in two minutes. You like to greet everyone a bit earlier than the formal start time and give a moment for technical issues. You sit and shrug. Good thing you didn’t make an announcement. You’d hate to let the students down. 

Right before you can start admitting people from the waiting room, there’s a knock at the door. Of course, the landlord would appear then. They can’t come replace the faulty smoke alarm when you’re not busy. Or three weeks ago when you called. 

You get up. You’ll have to tell him to come back another time and it will probably be another three weeks. You cross to the door and open it. 

“Sorry, prof,” Bucky smiles sheepishly. “Ran across the city to get here.” 

“Um... I sent you the Zoom link.” 

His eyes flick back and forth. “Zoom link? Oh, I guess it’s easier but you know, my assistants set those meetings up usually. I’m more of an in-person type of guy.” 

“Uh, okay, I wasn’t...” You back up. Maybe you should have clarified. “Alright.” 

You let him in and shut the door. You hurry back to the table and shift the laptop. How are you going to do this. You move the other chair. 

“Sit here,” you say. 

“Sorry, I guess I misunderstood,” he puts his briefcase on the couch as he passes. 

“It’s fine.” You check the time. “I gotta start letting people in. I’m going to do my welcome then introduce you. I have some review points and a condensed lecture so you can do your thing.” You sniff as you check yourself in the camera. “You got my notes?” 

“Sure did. Very thorough.” 

“Uh, thanks,” you swirl around the mouse to find the cursor. “Here we go.” 

You admit the students from the waiting room and they pop up on the screen. You share your slides so you’re not the centerpiece of the grid. You wait until you have a full count. 

“Alright, thanks everyone for coming today. Nice to see you again. And thank you to everyone who came to office hours.”  

You try not to rush through, try to give moments for questions. Your stomach is roiling as you’re overly aware of the man next to you. Bucky has his hands calmly clasped as the table as he waits; off-screen. 

“Next week, there will be no lecture. Remember, that Sunday, your midterm needs to be submitted through the LMS. You will still be expected to participate in the archive discussions.” You go through. “Before the lesson, does anyone have any questions about the midterm?”  

You wait. No response. That's typical. You'll have a full inbox next week, you’re sure. 

“Alright, without further ado. Let’s start. This week in our countdown to war, we’re going to look into a very familiar context; the United States. It shouldn’t be a surprise that even before involvement in the war, America found itself very much affected by the rise of Hitler and National Socialist Party...” 

You go into your slides, notes forgotten. You did so much work on the buildup to war, you can ramble at end. The challenge of teaching is focusing on the most significant points. On building the staircase up. 

Bucky’s shadow moving next to you draws you back. You flinch but keep going. He’s watching you. His observation makes you sweat. He’s closer than you’re used to. Right beside you, right there. He was there, he saw the war breakout right in front of him... 

“Alright, I’m sure you’re all tired of my rant,” you laugh off. “I do have a surprise for you all.” You try to smile. It’s awkward and forced. “For the last half of class, I have a guess speaker. An eye-witness if you will. So I’ll turn it over and let him introduce himself.” 

You hesitate as you stop sharing the presentation. Should you switch seats? Should you move the computer? The latter. You lift the laptop and put it in front of him. He adjusts the angles of the screen. 

“Hello, everyone, I’d like to thank your professor first of all for letting me come and talk to you. She seems to have the subject matter well in hand.” He speaks easily. Well, he’s perfected the craft in his role as a representative, though sometimes when you see him at the press conferences, he can be terse. 

You squint at the screen. Several of the students sit up in their little square and lean in. There’s surprise etched into their faces. One unmuted soul utters, “Bucky Barnes?” 

He chuckles. 

“I guess a formal introduction isn’t needed,” he smiles. “But uh, I should warn you. The war was a long time ago so... you know, the memory isn’t what it used to be.” He slips his hand under his jacket and takes out a worn journal. He slides out a loose leaf of paper from between the pages and unfolds it. “I made notes.” 

You look between him and the screen. The students are interested. You’re relieved. Still anxious. You feel strange just sitting there letting him do all the talking.