One of the most satisfying things in the world is to be in the company of the object of your desire. I hate to pursue, and I resent being pursued, but I am blissfully unaware of my emotional relationship baggage when Alex and I are writing together in restaurants or sitting across the table from each other and talking about anything or nothing for a good hour before class starts.
Alex is one of the most gorgeous boys (men?) that's ever talked to me. Or maybe I should say, has returned conversation with me. I met him one day on campus when I saw him eating in the same student union I was. And the first words that came to mind when I say his equine face, minty green eyes and urban-"Jewy" cosmopolitan good looks, the first words that popped up in my head were "Damn, you fine."
I thought nothing of it, and kept reading. some while later I sat up in my booth seat and stretched, looked behind me, and noticed he had moved into the booth behind me. And without thinking, the first words that popped out of my mouth were, "Damn, you fine."
No, just kidding. Actually, they were "Oh, you're over here now."
Since that first conversation, we've managed to hangout at least once a week at school, and sometimes outside of school. Sometimes I think he likes me, but he never makes a pass. I'm so used to passes. It's all I ever go on. Which is why I say that the pleasure of his company--even though it's all imbued with my desire to be near him, to be his girlfriend, to be more than one of his funny friends, for him to love me--is good. It's tepid and light.
We play frisbee outside after an evening of writing. I get him to agree to stop at a park on our way home so we can toss the disc around, and the fact that he agrees makes me love him a little more. We spend an hour in the sun, whose light makes the grass glossy and the flowers bright. We run back and forth, across our little green patch designated for us, and I'm so happy. Alex passes it up high, and it sails through the air, pulling up and down as if it was a saucer on a string. It glides and moves like a bird, and I run it down hard, feeling like my movement is in sync with the frisbee. I gun it, reaching out with open arms, chasing down that flying disc, looking at it and thinking "That's me up there."
Alex is one of the most gorgeous boys (men?) that's ever talked to me. Or maybe I should say, has returned conversation with me. I met him one day on campus when I saw him eating in the same student union I was. And the first words that came to mind when I say his equine face, minty green eyes and urban-"Jewy" cosmopolitan good looks, the first words that popped up in my head were "Damn, you fine."
I thought nothing of it, and kept reading. some while later I sat up in my booth seat and stretched, looked behind me, and noticed he had moved into the booth behind me. And without thinking, the first words that popped out of my mouth were, "Damn, you fine."
No, just kidding. Actually, they were "Oh, you're over here now."
Since that first conversation, we've managed to hangout at least once a week at school, and sometimes outside of school. Sometimes I think he likes me, but he never makes a pass. I'm so used to passes. It's all I ever go on. Which is why I say that the pleasure of his company--even though it's all imbued with my desire to be near him, to be his girlfriend, to be more than one of his funny friends, for him to love me--is good. It's tepid and light.
We play frisbee outside after an evening of writing. I get him to agree to stop at a park on our way home so we can toss the disc around, and the fact that he agrees makes me love him a little more. We spend an hour in the sun, whose light makes the grass glossy and the flowers bright. We run back and forth, across our little green patch designated for us, and I'm so happy. Alex passes it up high, and it sails through the air, pulling up and down as if it was a saucer on a string. It glides and moves like a bird, and I run it down hard, feeling like my movement is in sync with the frisbee. I gun it, reaching out with open arms, chasing down that flying disc, looking at it and thinking "That's me up there."
