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| I'm tired, so for now, i've stopped writing here... though it's not the greatest stopping place |
| 05.31.04 (2:18 pm) [edit] |
“So how did the conversation go?” you, the reader, ask. Well, I can’t tell you. Or rather, I don't want to tell you. I’m afraid you will read too much into his words or too much into her body movements, and as a result, you will develop ill-informed prejudices about two exceptional and dynamic characters.
Upon a moment’s reflection, I’ve decided to fill you in on the last part of their conversation. But if I do this, you must promise not to label them. Remember, he was nervous despite his apparent confidence, and she was enchanted by his eyes despite her suspicion.
“So do you have much schoolwork this weekend?” he asked.
“Yeah, tons,” she said.
“Well, screw it. I mean, just screw it. Because do you know what I think?” She didn’t know. “I think romance is dead in this world. I think you should come over to my room tonight and share a bottle of wine with me. I think I want to play a song for you on my guitar. I think I want to talk with you until the sun rises, and then we can do all that other bullshit that romantic people tend to do.”
“That’d be nice,” she said. She meant it. He could tell because she was smiling. “But I really do have too much work to do. I’m sorry. Maybe next weekend. And if not, I promise to do it sometime.”
------------------
They didn’t share a bottle of wine the next weekend. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.
Eventually, as the weekends piled on top of one another, she forgot about his eyes and he forgot about the wine. But this time neither forgot about their beginning. She remembered the conversation: “he was very philosophical and mostly up high,” she admitted to her boyfriend. And he remembered his love for her: “she will always be the first,” he wrote in his diary. But though they remembered, and though their memories were good and even hopeful, their lives, like their emotions, were jagged and confused, and not yet ready to travel down a complementary path.
For example, despite her bawdy clothes and flirtatious nature, she really did have a boyfriend. He was the captain and star running back of the college’s undefeated football team. And though this boyfriend seemed to epitomize male perfection (i.e. he was tall, attractive, athletic, artistic, musical, and rich), she promised her friends that that wasn’t the reason she had fallen for him. “It’s because he’s a hopeless romantic,” she explained. Her friends didn’t believe her.
Let’s clarify that last sentence. Her friends certainly believed that her boyfriend was a hopeless romantic-- everybody knew that. But they didn’t believe she had fallen for him. “Either she’s in love with love,” one friend said to another, “Or she’s playing some really fucked up games. But she’s certainly not in love with him.”
“Or both,” another friend piped in.
The second friend was the wiser. Tatiana was in love with seduction, manipulation, and the other love games that so many of us so often play—if we can. And her conversation with Greg, the one you missed, evidenced that love.
She listened to him; she really listened to him. And she paid attention to him. And opened herself up to him. And touched him: on his arm, his hip, his thigh. She told him that he was special and even “one of a kind.” She had even promised to share a bottle of wine with him. “Wine is for lovers and old friends,” he later wrote. “We will be the former.”
Of course, they didn’t become lovers. At least not right away. She had a boyfriend, though she told Greg nothing of the sort, and she “wouldn't dream of cheating on him."
And though he gradually gave up hope that they would ever share a bottle of wine or a night under the stars, he was far from bothered by her absence in his life. “We all need a first,” he would later write, “before we can enjoy a second, third, fourth, and fifth.”
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posted by: Heather (reply)
post date: 05.31.04 (3:34 pm)
I really like that one. The one before it feels disjointed to me..but who am I to say?
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