The European Experience # 88

I hadn't noticed him at first. I had walked by him and his friend before sitting down. After glancing them over thoroughly, I quickly concluded his friend had mediocre features and an uninspiring physique while, on the opposing end of the spectrum, he was beautiful. He was an adolescent Adonis; he lived at the moment before loosing innocence, but still exuded the charm of youthful confidence living life laissez-faire. The moment I saw him was the moment I saw him see me: We both smiled.
I had come to sit near the fountain in the park to enjoy Oscar Wilde's "The Artist as Critic", or is is called "Criticism as Art", I can't remember,I was finding it difficult to concentrate at that moment. The fountain came out of a large wall and poured into a wading pool that ran a length of about twenty five meters. There was a small path with chairs running along each side of the wading pool. The attractive youth and I happened to be sitting along the same side of the wading pool, ten meters apart.
I attempted to read, but my eyes kept on wandering over to my Personal Adonis and his eyes seem to meet mine as I stared. Neither of us having the courage to do anything about our unspoken desires, this continued for some time.
Finally, to my dismay, he and his friend got up to leave. As he passed, our eyes made the most intense contact they had thus far: We stared eye to eye for a breathless moment that seemed to both last forever and for only a mere instant at the same time. But all good things must end no matter how long or short they seem, and my muse passed me by.
But he and his friend soon returned. They sat down at two chairs right next to mine before I could see them coming. His friend sat with his back next to me and Adonis sat facing his friend directly. This allowed for Adonis to look directly at me, over his friends shoulder, as they were conversing. Without appearing downright rude, Adonis and I stared back and forth while he seemed to be deeply and sincerely engaged in the ramblings of his friend.
Again, neither of us had the courage to make the first move. Adonis was trapped in the conversation with his friend, and I didn't want to rudely interrupt. We both were cowards.
The time had come again, and they got up to leave. Adonis kept looking over his shoulder at me as he walked away.
Seeing that I had refrained from eating while keeping very distant company with Adonis, I got up to grab a bite shortly after they left.
After lunch, I had returned to the fountain to read (maybe this time I would be able to get through that first sentenced I had read over and over again). This time I sat on the opposite side of the wading pool. Again, Adonis walked by where I was formerly sitting, but because I had chosen a new local to sit and read, five feet of water separated us. Instead of very inconspicuously walking down one side of the wading pool, to walk up the other side of the wading pool only to not-so-subtlely sit right next to me again, they walked down the side of the wading pool, crossed the width of the water at the opposing end of fountain, and sat themselves ten meters directly behind me in the park.
I adjusted my chair so I could easily turn my head to make eye contact. It was mid-afternoon, the sun was high, and it was hot, yet I continued my warm-waiting-watching game. Now that he was not so close, he was boldly staring at me and making his intentions known. I still did nothing.
How long could this go on?
Finally, I do something. I reach into my bag, pull out a pen and my notebook where I write dates, phone numbers, and any other little bit of information I don't want to forget. I turn my head to look at him, turn back, and then... I begin to write.
He is currently sitting behind me as I write this. Occasionally, I look over my shoulder and our eyes meet. I do not have the courage to act, only the courage to write, and that is not much courage at all. But now that I have recorded the events (or lack there of) in the immortal realm of the written word, there is nothing left to do but do. My life will not be a life of words, but a life of action ( that is, 'action' in both senses of the word). Words are dead. Action is living.