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Art History m4w A good deal of time has passed, but I saw you again a few weeks ago in the train station, yawning as I walked by. I was headed to class and you were headed wherever you were headed. This is a terrible medium, a haven for the lost, the tongue tied, the shy, the crazy, the lonely, the creeps... But I am unrepentant. I am shy, tongue tied, lost, crazy, and have been a creep at one time or another, and make no apologies.
I sat behind you in a literature class in a spring semester, maybe two years ago. You would write your name down and pass the sign in sheet to me. I found you so beautiful, and the things you said, when you spoke up, so thoughtful, that your name became like a mantra to me. I would admire it there, scrawled on a blue line, a simple, pretty name for a girl who was deep, curvy, intelligent, yet somehow sad, always peering down pensively with soft brown eyes. and I clung to that name, expecting any day to say it, to try to say... something. We were both very quiet presences in that class. But to me you were a presence, I noticed you, and I'm generally oblivious. When the class ended you would often walk out ahead of me, and I would watch you walk down the hall, admiring the view.
At the end of the semester, you gave a presentation on art history, which is/was your major. I was really blown away. So much knowledge sexy women searching xxx dating flirt sex of the artists you presented, with a passion for the subject, from quiet, small you. You seemed so at ease talking about art. I don't know a great deal about art beyond literature, and I wanted to take you to a museum, and have you tell me all you know, show me what you like. I wanted so badly to hear you talk, on and on, about anything. For some reason I was so transfixed by you, by your looks and your thoughts, that I imagined if you got beneath my cold, moony surface that there would be some wonderful development, something deep and shared. Life, books, art, sex. Some time later a drunk girlfriend of a friend suggested I give you a letter I had written you, maybe a semester later, for I often still saw you in the station. So I chased you to the platform with my note in an envelope in a trembling hand and... stopped. You got on the train and I tore up the letter, which was more artful and articulate than this. What if you were spoken for? What if you found it lewd, or inappropriate? What if I was too old, ugly? I just forgot about the whole thing. A love letter seemed such an obsessive thing to do. I regret never just saying "L-- how are you?" when we were in class. That would have been the normal thing to do. Oh, to be normal....
I'm a solitary, and so I crush. Coffee shop girls and tobacco shop girls have a narcotizing effect on me. My social circle has dwindled. I rarely get beyond the pleasantries of weather or whatever with the people I meet. And generally I can take or leave people. Occasionally I sense something more, and a brief fascination is the result. Maybe I prefer the mystery.
It isn't as though I love you, I don't know you. It is just I wish I did know you, had got to know you. I know it would have been rewarding for me, if not for you....
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