dontravis.com
blog post #487
The short story that follows is a repost from February 20, 2014, some seven years ago. I wonder how many remember it? Shout out if you do.
****
HE
ONLY CAME ALIVE …
“He only came alive when she was in the room.”
That line was the only part of a
long-forgotten book that stuck with me. But stuck, it had. Every once in awhile
it would pop unbidden into my head, usually when I was bored and in need of
distraction.
Like now in Professor Stood’s American Lit
class. That’s Stood with O’s as in too, not as in wood. If the old windbag had
the brains to spell it S-t-u-u-d, he
wouldn’t have to correct everyone all the time. At the moment he was discussing
the minimalist quality of Earnest Hemmingway’s writings. That was definitely
boring. The only thing of Papa’s I liked was For Whom the Bell Tolls. The rest were just so many black ink marks
sullying pristine paper. A Farewell to
Arms fit particularly well into the latter category, so far as I was concerned.
So naturally, my eyes were playing the
endless game of “Is-She-the-One?” I regarded Sara Tillingham across the room, her
sharp chin resting in the palm of one hand, eyes (brown, I believe) fixed on
the rotund instructor. She’d be wearing something that smelled of roses. Attractive
but studious. Imagining her future conjured only images of ivy-covered
buildings and classrooms. A teacher. No, a professor. A tenured professor regaling her students in a
high, thin voice. Her spare time would be spent penning romances under a nom de plume.
Sorry, but I couldn’t imagine her
illuminating my life.
Winsome Williams, two rows behind Sara,
was something else. Her aroma would be lavender. Definitely lavender. I shifted
in my seat for a better look. From her appearance, you wouldn’t think she came
from money, but I knew she did. Blonde, blue-eyed, pert, pug-nosed, and so
packed with curves they verged on the vulgar, she was expensive trashy … by design. No classrooms in her
future. More likely bedrooms. The picture of an expensive madam with a low, silky
voice leapt to mind. Would she brighten my life?
Nah.
Beth Hughes, just a row over and two seats
ahead of me. Compact, wiry, a strong alto with lots of vibrato. A tennis phenom
at the U, she always smelled of Wind Song … sometimes woody, sometimes floral.
Pretty in a jock sort of way. It wasn’t hard to visualize her future: US Open,
Wimbledon. Endless tennis courts… clay, grass, concrete. Keeping up with her
would be demanding, and probably exciting at times.
Too much of a competitor.
Everyone made ready to leave when Stood
dismissed the class. I rose, stretched, and turned to grab my backpack hanging
over the desk chair.
“Well, did you pick one?”
I glanced up to see Ricardo Alban grinning
at me.
“Saw you checking out the gals during the
lecture.”
The smoldering, sloe-eyed stare of the
tall young man with a throaty baritone, a hint of Brut… the Essence of Man… always clinging to him made me pause. As
I took in the smooth olive skin and wavy black hair, my stomach dropped. My blood sang.
“Wanna grab a beer at the Student Union?”
His left eyebrow arched. “Or I have a couple of beers in the fridge at my room.”
“R-room… uh, beer,” I stuttered.
Maybe I’d have to alter that sentence from
the long-forgotten book ever so slightly.
****
Can
self-awareness really come in a flash like that? There’s no question in my mind
our protagonist knew exactly what Ricardo was suggesting, yet he didn’t hesitate
a second. Does this remind you of an incident in your own life? If so, let me
know.
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See
you next Thursday.
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