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The Girlfriend continually reminds me of the fact that I have a crush on the French Gallery Guy. Of course I have a crush on him, Id freely admit that. I like having crushes, its so nice to be at the giving end of the infatuation line occasionally. And mind you, I mean Very occasionally only. Any more then that would be simply detrimental to my ego.
Now, all throughout the week Id been wanting to pay him a visit, but had been feeling far too lazy, and too bogged down by work to do so, but last night saw the perfect excuse come by for me to make a trip down town. It was to procure a copy of this particular China Culture magazine whose editor has emailed me offering me a chance at being East Asias Carrie Bradshaw, minus the mid-life crisis and menopause. (Extravagant claims, but its very intrusive of you to try and be the arbitrator of my fantasies.)
***
The escalator stopped at the floor the gallery was on, and I tried to peek into the office from where I was, trying to see if he was there. I thought I saw him wandering aimlessly around, but I couldnt be sure. And all this time, a strange, childish feeling was swelling up in me, turning me into something I had not been in a long time.
The unsurity of self had turned me into a coward, and I rode on with the escalator into the bookstore above, too chicken to do what I really wanted to. Later, I kept on telling myself. Later, when the gallery was about to close. Come by then and ask him if he wanted a drink, and wait for him while he locked up; Yes, Later would make more sense.
But I was illiterate, browsing thought books I couldnt understand. All there was were the words chanting in my head, telling me to do what I wanted to. And after a pointless 30 minutes, I gave in and finally tossed the graphic novel I had been mindlessly fanning onto a shelf.
Walking into the gallery always made me feel like I was stepping into private space. Usually it was because every single painting gave me the sense that I was entering the thoughts of someone else. But this time, the awareness of me as a trespasser was more domineering then it usually was.
I felt like I was trespassing onto his space, and for the want of being welcomed, for that, made it all the more difficult to bear.
I stood at the entrance for awhile, pretending to muse over the new exhibits that had been placed up. He was on the phone. I wandered a little deeper. I felt a little like an intruder, and didnt dare to make too much noise with my heels. There was much wondering about if he knew my presence, but I didnt dare find out through looking directly into the office, and at him. It was ridiculous. I had managed to come this far, and now all I was doing was hiding behind canvases and make-shift walls. Did I expect him to want to play a childish little game with me, to match my childish little feelings. There was no reason behind it, aside from the fact that I was simply not prepared for anything. But it was just one of those things you can never prepare for, and it was ironic, considering the predictability of human behaviour.
He put down the phone, and there was the clink of China. And I knew He knew. He strolled out leisurely as I bit my lip and pretended to steal a glance from the corner of my eye, knowing full well he was aware of my attention. I thought he was looking at me, and I realized it was so when I turned my head to look at him and saw that he responded, almost in chorus.
Hey Isabella, (he remembered my name. Thats a start! I didnt even know his) how are you doing?
La libert!
The most difficult part is always in bridging the silence after-all, am I not right.
He was across the hall, and when I responded with how fine I simply was, he walked over. I attempted to sustain a conversation about the new exhibits, but the desire to ask him for a drink agitated me, and before I knew it, Id asked him if he was free tonight.
He looked at me with a slightly surprised smile, perhaps with a pleasantly pleased lilt to the corners, and repeated the suggested time; Tonight?
Well, I was around the area, I thought Id drop by and ask you out for a drink, I mean, its all right if you dont want to, I..
Oh no, Im terribly sorry but Ive a flight to Hong Kong tomorrow, or tonight, depending on how you see it. Im incredibly sorry, Id love to, but
But I promptly switch the subject. Rejection was always an embarrassing thing, and most certainly something I wasnt particularly used to. But he did seem sincere in his apology.
You see that painting over there? He said, gesturing to a canvas awashed in throbbing tones of ocher. Its by an Iranian artist. The clothes you see on it, they are not real
There was a strange discourse over Iranian culture after that, and he apparently shared the same fascination with obscure Middle-Eastern movies.
You can distinguish their art. They are all painted in a sort of silent tragedy.
He looked at me as if he were weighing my thoughts.
They suffer a lot, and it shows, Im sure you can see that. All their art express repressiveness. Its more terrible when you think how prosperous Iran once was, and now its run by mad-men.
Hah. Chauvinistic, insecure males you mean.
He laughed at that.
There was an odd looking coffee table below the painting, with nail varnish spilled into a structured disarray.
Modern art.
I know its modern art, I replied. But I cant say I know what modern art is. I will never understand it, aside from the fact that it looks great, and that it would make a fantastic centerpiece for an after dinner conversation.
Ah silly, theres nothing to understand. Its pretty, I like it. That one over there He gestured to a sculpture of a naked African adolescent. I love that one. The artist is a friend of mine.
I hadnt noticed the figurine before, but now that I did, I thought it was lovely. Mostly because he said it was. Sculptures normally never caught my attention. And this one was particularly lovely.
Because the adolescent form is so seldom captured nude, you know. Its a pity. Its one of the most fascinating phrases of human anatomical development, and yet it always passes us by because were so afraid of the taboo
He nodded his head, smiling and stroking the head of the girl. Shes a Lolita.
I couldnt help but laugh.
You know, when you get back from Hong Kong, whenever that is, you should go to the WOMAD festival. I suggested. (Of course hinting that he should go with me.)
Oh no, Im simply too old.
Nonsense. You just sit around listening to great tunes hand-beaten on drums and dance to reggae and salsa beats. Its fantastic!
Oh, you salsa? My wifes a fabulous salsa dancer. But I cant do it.
Thats insane. Anyone can learn how to salsa, and it should be easier for you, since you already have an accomplished partner.
The revelation of my disappointment could not have been more then a split second, but it took me awhile to get over the shock. He must have known I was disappointed, I was sure of it. I thought it was obvious, because for the next 5 minutes, the words wife and kids came out of my mouth quite liberally, although inside me, I knew I was being incredibly stupid.
The conversation had ran its course by then, and Id over-stayed in someone elses private space. I told him Id take my leave, and he suggested I emailed him the number of the place I went to dance at (or where I used to anyway, I havent had the time recently, and have gotten terribly rusty, and you know how these things are downward spirals to a final degradation), and left me with a name-card.
Im really sorry I had to decline your company tonight, but you know how it is, when you have a family. Youll know what I meanwhen you do.
The word youre looking for is responsibility, and I do have a family! I laughed.
And I knew it was a genuine laugh. I was disappointed that he turned out to be much older and with more responsibilities then I had previously thought, but all that did not deride what Id felt previously.
Just before I left the gallery, he stopped me and asked how old I was.
Why? Do I look pre-pubescent? My anatomy is nothing like the statue of your Lolita.
Oh no, its just that, I think your thoughts are He struggled to find a word. Deep. Advanced?
Matured.
Do you really think so? I get that quite often, although I cant believe people my age can be sillier then me. They are, but I cannot believe it.
You are, and I wouldnt insult you. Its really a compliment.
But thank you for coming by, I had a pleasant time, and Im sorry again that I cant go out with you tonight. But perhaps we could do it sometime in the future, you can email me, or call
I look at him.
Oh no, youre the busy one, you should email me sometime, and wed go out. Im free quite often anyway.
I couldnt do that, youve been nothing but nice to me.
Frankly, I didnt quite understand what he meant, and right now, Im stuck in a bit of ambivalence. But a red-flag is a red-flag. Remember how I said I didnt believe in absolutes? Well, there are some absolutes. A wife and kid are absolutes.
I went to Starbucks thereafter for a frothy latte, a wheat spinach bagel and some time out to think about what I felt.
And I felt that I was a perfectly dislocated individual with a hyper-active imagination, and that I knew what being in love was. Of course I did.
He was compassionate and considerate, and that was all that mattered.
xoxox
The Girlfriend continually reminds me of the fact that I have a crush on the French Gallery Guy. Of course I have a crush on him, Id freely admit that. I like having crushes, its so nice to be at the giving end of the infatuation line occasionally. And mind you, I mean Very occasionally only. Any more then that would be simply detrimental to my ego.
Now, all throughout the week Id been wanting to pay him a visit, but had been feeling far too lazy, and too bogged down by work to do so, but last night saw the perfect excuse come by for me to make a trip down town. It was to procure a copy of this particular China Culture magazine whose editor has emailed me offering me a chance at being East Asias Carrie Bradshaw, minus the mid-life crisis and menopause. (Extravagant claims, but its very intrusive of you to try and be the arbitrator of my fantasies.)
***
The escalator stopped at the floor the gallery was on, and I tried to peek into the office from where I was, trying to see if he was there. I thought I saw him wandering aimlessly around, but I couldnt be sure. And all this time, a strange, childish feeling was swelling up in me, turning me into something I had not been in a long time.
The unsurity of self had turned me into a coward, and I rode on with the escalator into the bookstore above, too chicken to do what I really wanted to. Later, I kept on telling myself. Later, when the gallery was about to close. Come by then and ask him if he wanted a drink, and wait for him while he locked up; Yes, Later would make more sense.
But I was illiterate, browsing thought books I couldnt understand. All there was were the words chanting in my head, telling me to do what I wanted to. And after a pointless 30 minutes, I gave in and finally tossed the graphic novel I had been mindlessly fanning onto a shelf.
Walking into the gallery always made me feel like I was stepping into private space. Usually it was because every single painting gave me the sense that I was entering the thoughts of someone else. But this time, the awareness of me as a trespasser was more domineering then it usually was.
I felt like I was trespassing onto his space, and for the want of being welcomed, for that, made it all the more difficult to bear.
I stood at the entrance for awhile, pretending to muse over the new exhibits that had been placed up. He was on the phone. I wandered a little deeper. I felt a little like an intruder, and didnt dare to make too much noise with my heels. There was much wondering about if he knew my presence, but I didnt dare find out through looking directly into the office, and at him. It was ridiculous. I had managed to come this far, and now all I was doing was hiding behind canvases and make-shift walls. Did I expect him to want to play a childish little game with me, to match my childish little feelings. There was no reason behind it, aside from the fact that I was simply not prepared for anything. But it was just one of those things you can never prepare for, and it was ironic, considering the predictability of human behaviour.
He put down the phone, and there was the clink of China. And I knew He knew. He strolled out leisurely as I bit my lip and pretended to steal a glance from the corner of my eye, knowing full well he was aware of my attention. I thought he was looking at me, and I realized it was so when I turned my head to look at him and saw that he responded, almost in chorus.
Hey Isabella, (he remembered my name. Thats a start! I didnt even know his) how are you doing?
La libert!
The most difficult part is always in bridging the silence after-all, am I not right.
He was across the hall, and when I responded with how fine I simply was, he walked over. I attempted to sustain a conversation about the new exhibits, but the desire to ask him for a drink agitated me, and before I knew it, Id asked him if he was free tonight.
He looked at me with a slightly surprised smile, perhaps with a pleasantly pleased lilt to the corners, and repeated the suggested time; Tonight?
Well, I was around the area, I thought Id drop by and ask you out for a drink, I mean, its all right if you dont want to, I..
Oh no, Im terribly sorry but Ive a flight to Hong Kong tomorrow, or tonight, depending on how you see it. Im incredibly sorry, Id love to, but
But I promptly switch the subject. Rejection was always an embarrassing thing, and most certainly something I wasnt particularly used to. But he did seem sincere in his apology.
You see that painting over there? He said, gesturing to a canvas awashed in throbbing tones of ocher. Its by an Iranian artist. The clothes you see on it, they are not real
There was a strange discourse over Iranian culture after that, and he apparently shared the same fascination with obscure Middle-Eastern movies.
You can distinguish their art. They are all painted in a sort of silent tragedy.
He looked at me as if he were weighing my thoughts.
They suffer a lot, and it shows, Im sure you can see that. All their art express repressiveness. Its more terrible when you think how prosperous Iran once was, and now its run by mad-men.
Hah. Chauvinistic, insecure males you mean.
He laughed at that.
There was an odd looking coffee table below the painting, with nail varnish spilled into a structured disarray.
Modern art.
I know its modern art, I replied. But I cant say I know what modern art is. I will never understand it, aside from the fact that it looks great, and that it would make a fantastic centerpiece for an after dinner conversation.
Ah silly, theres nothing to understand. Its pretty, I like it. That one over there He gestured to a sculpture of a naked African adolescent. I love that one. The artist is a friend of mine.
I hadnt noticed the figurine before, but now that I did, I thought it was lovely. Mostly because he said it was. Sculptures normally never caught my attention. And this one was particularly lovely.
Because the adolescent form is so seldom captured nude, you know. Its a pity. Its one of the most fascinating phrases of human anatomical development, and yet it always passes us by because were so afraid of the taboo
He nodded his head, smiling and stroking the head of the girl. Shes a Lolita.
I couldnt help but laugh.
You know, when you get back from Hong Kong, whenever that is, you should go to the WOMAD festival. I suggested. (Of course hinting that he should go with me.)
Oh no, Im simply too old.
Nonsense. You just sit around listening to great tunes hand-beaten on drums and dance to reggae and salsa beats. Its fantastic!
Oh, you salsa? My wifes a fabulous salsa dancer. But I cant do it.
Thats insane. Anyone can learn how to salsa, and it should be easier for you, since you already have an accomplished partner.
The revelation of my disappointment could not have been more then a split second, but it took me awhile to get over the shock. He must have known I was disappointed, I was sure of it. I thought it was obvious, because for the next 5 minutes, the words wife and kids came out of my mouth quite liberally, although inside me, I knew I was being incredibly stupid.
The conversation had ran its course by then, and Id over-stayed in someone elses private space. I told him Id take my leave, and he suggested I emailed him the number of the place I went to dance at (or where I used to anyway, I havent had the time recently, and have gotten terribly rusty, and you know how these things are downward spirals to a final degradation), and left me with a name-card.
Im really sorry I had to decline your company tonight, but you know how it is, when you have a family. Youll know what I meanwhen you do.
The word youre looking for is responsibility, and I do have a family! I laughed.
And I knew it was a genuine laugh. I was disappointed that he turned out to be much older and with more responsibilities then I had previously thought, but all that did not deride what Id felt previously.
Just before I left the gallery, he stopped me and asked how old I was.
Why? Do I look pre-pubescent? My anatomy is nothing like the statue of your Lolita.
Oh no, its just that, I think your thoughts are He struggled to find a word. Deep. Advanced?
Matured.
Do you really think so? I get that quite often, although I cant believe people my age can be sillier then me. They are, but I cannot believe it.
You are, and I wouldnt insult you. Its really a compliment.
But thank you for coming by, I had a pleasant time, and Im sorry again that I cant go out with you tonight. But perhaps we could do it sometime in the future, you can email me, or call
I look at him.
Oh no, youre the busy one, you should email me sometime, and wed go out. Im free quite often anyway.
I couldnt do that, youve been nothing but nice to me.
Frankly, I didnt quite understand what he meant, and right now, Im stuck in a bit of ambivalence. But a red-flag is a red-flag. Remember how I said I didnt believe in absolutes? Well, there are some absolutes. A wife and kid are absolutes.
I went to Starbucks thereafter for a frothy latte, a wheat spinach bagel and some time out to think about what I felt.
And I felt that I was a perfectly dislocated individual with a hyper-active imagination, and that I knew what being in love was. Of course I did.
He was compassionate and considerate, and that was all that mattered.
xoxox
Candace Bushnell isn't what you're aiming for, obviously.
That's the biggest thing I see in you. Your posts are very eloquently written and show a lot of insight.. I am a fan.