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| working out |
| 06.09.04 (12:29 pm) [edit] |
Greg and Tatiana finally started a bottle of wine together a month after beginning their final year of college and twenty minutes before starting their second bottle of wine. Admittedly, I had hoped for something less. I wanted their stories to be more authentic, and never begin, or at least never come together.
What happened?
Before her final year of college, Tatiana decided to be more independent and less reliant on the courtesy of boys. “I want to buy my own clothes,” she told a friend. “Or at least some of them” (Her boyfriend and others had been buying clothes for her throughout college). So she acquired a job working at the front desk of her college gym checking student identification cards and making sure everyone wore close-toed shoes. But she didn’t do her job well. Instead, she studied for medical school examinations and admired the beautiful people that walked by, among the many not-so-beautiful ones, and watched them all admire her.
As he progressed through college, Greg tried to pursue an objective aesthetic ideal in all facets of his life. For instance, he wasn’t satisfied with just any true love, he wanted perfect love. And he wasn’t satisfied with self-understanding, he wanted to understand everyone and everything. And he didn’t just want to be a good friend, or good in bed, he wanted to be the best friend, and last forever in bed, or at least as long as needed. And, of course, he set the same standards for his body. Despite a slight build that made it difficult for him to put on muscle, and hollow cheeks that seemed not to want to fill out, he wanted a perfect body. So he still attended the gym everyday. And it was there that he and Tatiana were again reacquainted.
And though they had once engaged in a wonderful conversation on a park bench, the one I’ve told you so much (or little) about, their gym exchanges were short and trite at first. Why? Well, she had had intimate conversations with many boys, and she didn’t feel the need to extend herself, because she knew that most boys eventually would. And he was embarrassed. Though she had been a learning experience that he didn’t regret, she had also been a failure. “She was my first love,” he had written. “But also my first love lost.”
And unsurprisingly, at least for her, Greg one day furthered the conversation. “I like your short cut mini-skirt and revealing tank top. It brings out the color in your eyes,” he said. But he wasn’t thinking about her eyes at all, and she knew it. Perhaps that’s why she blushed. “I like your eyes too,” she said. And she really was thinking about his eyes. She remembered that those same eyes had fascinated her once before.
And though they both appreciated [i]light[/i], pithy, and shallow conversation, perhaps ironically (or maybe not so, as they both attended an elite liberal arts college), they valued depth, and intellectuality just as much. So when she commented on the upcoming Presidential election, and he alluded to Kant and his view of the aesthetic, conversation was [i]light[/i] and fulfilling, and they remembered how easy things had been at the picnic table years before.
(Though they talked about many facets of life and their lives, I don't want to slow the pace of the story with specifics. You’ll learn everything you need to know as we go. I promise.)
For instance, know this: their political and philosophical views were at times similar and at times different, but even their differences were inherently compatible.
She was passionate about being passionate, and he was passionate about understanding passionate people like her. And they were intrigued by their differences. So when her work shift finished, it shouldn’t have been too surprising when she asked, “When will we drink that bottle of wine that we promised each other so long ago?”
And Though he felt a deep connection with her, the same connection he had felt with her twice or three times before, he was admittedly stunned and, for the first time he could remember, speechless.
Why?
Because he had counted her out: “My existential failure,” he wrote in his diary. Yet she had defied him. And though he imagined he was good, very good, he never dreamed he was quite this good.
“How about tonight?” he responded, wondering if she still had a boyfriend.
“Dinner too?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
“Can you cook?” she asked.
“Anything you want,” he said.
“Fish,” she replied.
“Of course,” he said.
“What time?” she asked.
“Seven…at my place,” he said. They shook hands. He walked into the gym, and she punched her time card, grabbed her bag, and headed home to get ready.
When he was sure she had left, he stood in the corner of the gym, opened his cell phone, and called his mother. “How does one cook fish?” he asked. A bead of sweat had appeared, as if from nowhere, on his forehead.
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posted by: newbie (reply)
post date: 06.09.04 (5:33 pm)
Well-written and interesting
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