people i wish i knew...
She was a pretend socialite of sorts, enamored with things previously foreign to her: academia and red wine and slinky clothing- usually sale-bought, but hell, who would know?
He was a real socialite, with the dysfunctional family and collared shirts to prove it.
School had been her sanctuary as a child. She read books for the possibilities they held on the first page and the feigned finality of the last. She learned because most of what she learned about (with the possible exception of math) seemed romantic and escapist, and she wanted, since her family had moved to that damn small town, to escape.
School had been his playground- he had rooms and rooms of friends and varsity letters and charisma to spare, nevermind the perfect test scores and plenty of Ivy League acceptance letters.
She was a dancer, telling stories with her bruised feet, and on dance floors, rather against her will, she sometimes felt a tiny bit pretty.
He had danced with a lot of girls and remembered very few. Sometimes, while holding their hands, he wondered what the hell they saw in him and laughed under his breath at the irony of it all.
Before she went to bed last night, she brushed her teeth, did 3/4 of a New York Times crossword in a sports bra and pajama pants, turned the lights off in her dorm room, lay there for ten minutes, switched on her lamp, grabbed a Fitzgerald novel and lost herself until she fell asleep.
Before he went to bed last night, he brushed his teeth, wrote two e-mails to old high school friends. Ate a granola bar. Cursed. Brushed his teeth again. Finished some last-minute Latin homework, and fell asleep exactly 2 minutes 34 seconds after turning the light off.
She loved using big words, not because they made her sound intelligent, but because she just liked the way they felt on her lips. Enigmatic. Serendipity. Transubstantiation. And she had picked up a bit of his New York accent.
He spoke bluntly, confidently, and said what he meant, but said it eloquently enough that people could not fault him for it. And then there was the New York accent.
Her favorite things included arm chairs, genuine conversation, those little sample bottles of perfume you get in department stores, spelling words the British way, anything "humanitarian," spinning around in public places, and stained-glass windows.
His favorite things included playing soccer on the quad, baseball caps, staying up late and getting up early, and the book of Neruda he kept hidden on the shelf under his econ textbook.
She was scared of going out into the "real world," being forced to take a class on Chaucer, and dying having not helped a soul.
He was scared of monotony and being poor and people finding out he was scared of anything at all, and of her finding out that he missed her. He was scared of that too.
He was a real socialite, with the dysfunctional family and collared shirts to prove it.
School had been her sanctuary as a child. She read books for the possibilities they held on the first page and the feigned finality of the last. She learned because most of what she learned about (with the possible exception of math) seemed romantic and escapist, and she wanted, since her family had moved to that damn small town, to escape.
School had been his playground- he had rooms and rooms of friends and varsity letters and charisma to spare, nevermind the perfect test scores and plenty of Ivy League acceptance letters.
She was a dancer, telling stories with her bruised feet, and on dance floors, rather against her will, she sometimes felt a tiny bit pretty.
He had danced with a lot of girls and remembered very few. Sometimes, while holding their hands, he wondered what the hell they saw in him and laughed under his breath at the irony of it all.
Before she went to bed last night, she brushed her teeth, did 3/4 of a New York Times crossword in a sports bra and pajama pants, turned the lights off in her dorm room, lay there for ten minutes, switched on her lamp, grabbed a Fitzgerald novel and lost herself until she fell asleep.
Before he went to bed last night, he brushed his teeth, wrote two e-mails to old high school friends. Ate a granola bar. Cursed. Brushed his teeth again. Finished some last-minute Latin homework, and fell asleep exactly 2 minutes 34 seconds after turning the light off.
She loved using big words, not because they made her sound intelligent, but because she just liked the way they felt on her lips. Enigmatic. Serendipity. Transubstantiation. And she had picked up a bit of his New York accent.
He spoke bluntly, confidently, and said what he meant, but said it eloquently enough that people could not fault him for it. And then there was the New York accent.
Her favorite things included arm chairs, genuine conversation, those little sample bottles of perfume you get in department stores, spelling words the British way, anything "humanitarian," spinning around in public places, and stained-glass windows.
His favorite things included playing soccer on the quad, baseball caps, staying up late and getting up early, and the book of Neruda he kept hidden on the shelf under his econ textbook.
She was scared of going out into the "real world," being forced to take a class on Chaucer, and dying having not helped a soul.
He was scared of monotony and being poor and people finding out he was scared of anything at all, and of her finding out that he missed her. He was scared of that too.