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| Part II (sorry, I've been away on a post-college graduation trip) |
| 05.30.04 (7:24 am) [edit] |
A year after their beginning (or lack thereof), Tatiana sat on a park bench reading Jacque la fataliste. When her eyes tired from reading too much, she’d look up at the sky and imagine that her life choices, the ones that seemed so difficult, really hadn’t been choices at all. Rather, they had been written long before on a typewriter somewhere up high.
Greg, by chance (or maybe it wasn’t chance at all), saw Tatiana on the park bench. If you’re like most readers, you’ll wonder where he was coming from or, at least, where he was going. And though his immediate past and future add nothing to the story, you’ll still want the facts, all of them. So here you go.
He was coming from a political science class where he had been investigating the usage of art, public and ephemeral art, as a political tool. And he was going to a coffee shop. He sipped coffee and tried to reconcile faith and faithlessness with his school’s Chaplain every Tuesday afternoon. They hadn’t yet been successful.
And maybe this information does have a place. Maybe he stopped walking when he saw Tatiana on the park bench because something in her reminded him that Tuesday with the chaplain would be no different. They would look far into faith’s eyes and he would not understand. They would delve deep into faithlessness’s heart and he would come up empty.
But he wasn't thinking so deeply.
He stopped walking when he saw her sitting cross-legged on a picnic table, with a book in her lap and a fire in her deep brown Latina eyes because, well, he was in love.
And this time, unlike all the times he had passed her before, he knew. They would talk. And she would fall in love with him. Well, [i]at least [/i]they would talk. And he’d ask her to share a bottle of wine with him that weekend. “It was written somewhere up high,” he would later write.
And you, the reader, are probably confused. You remember that just a year ago, he had sat next to her in a classroom. He was aroused by her, as was his professor, yet he didn’t ask her to coffee. He was timid and scared. And now a conversation? A bottle of wine? What changed?
Well…
A year before, Greg was tall but not athletic or toned. His arms and legs were skinny, but his stomach contrastingly showed a noticeable bulge. He didn’t mind though. He would discover a vaccine for AIDS, he knew, so his mind needed to take precedence over his body.
But things changed in the health center, before he met with the psychiatrist about his anxiety, when he fell in love with her. He knew right then, for perhaps the first time, that “a girl with like that would never go for a guy like me.” So he transformed himself. For the next year, he lifted weights, ran, and ate lots of protein. When he saw her at the picnic table, he was no Brad Pitt, he knew, but he might just be good enough for her, he thought.
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