talented artist, I am an accomplished liar.
Brian turned to look.
I raced away.
----
----
4
Competition in wonderful Woolsey Hall, in that parallel place
A large poster in the rotunda advertised: A NIGHT
OF MUSIC WITH YALE MUSICIANS. Waiting to enter, a crowd muttered and stamped at the doors to the magnificent auditorium with its Grecian-themed murals, white columns, and high, vaulted ceilings.
Brian, wearing a Red Sox shirt, held a program and pointed to a name printed on it.
“Look, Rajiv, Tessa Barnum,” Brian said, reverently. “She plays the cello. She’s talented and beautiful. And smart.”
“Everyone at Yale is smart.” Rajiv craned his neck to look over Brian’s shoulder. In a heavily accented voice, he said, “She doesn’t know you exist.”
“Minor detail.”
“Rama is in the details,” Rajiv observed in a sympathetic tone.
“I like the way her eyes get all soft sometimes.
What is she thinking about? It’s not diffy Q’s,” Brian murmured.
“That’s because you’re not teaching diffy Q’s,” Rajiv said.
“I’m going to ask her out.”
“Bri, man, she’s got a boyfriend from home.”
Brian grinned. “I have to apply inertial force and remove his gravitational influence from her frame of reference. I’m researching her so that I have leverage.”
“Gravity isn’t yet part of the quantum scenario,” Rajiv offered.
“That’s because gravity isn’t a force, it’s a warping of space-time.” Brian would have elaborated, but the doors opened and people streamed in to find seats. Brian and Rajiv hustled their way into the fifth row, center.
Rajiv spied a square-jawed guy with perfect hair taking a seat in the third row. The guy was chatting a little too amiably with a girl with slicked-back hair, heavy black eyeliner, and a diaphanous shirt with a plunging neckline that arrowed between black-painted nipples.
“That is him,” Rajiv said. “The guy with Debbie Doll. She’s the woman in our class with the arm like Yogi Berra.”
“His name is David Mills, and he drove down from Dartmouth,” Brian said. He scanned David coolly. “What’s he doing with Debbie Doll?”
“They say Debbie Doll doesn’t wear underwear,” Rajiv said with a look of supreme curiosity.
“Yogi Berra was a catcher. And a Yankee. What did I tell you about the Yankees?”
“We don’t like the Yankees.”
“I don’t like David Mills,” Brian said.
“He’s hot, you have to admit. Look at him,” Rajiv said.
“He’s trying too hard. He looks like Dudley Do-Right.” Brian would have expounded on the principle but the lights dimmed.
A man in a tux walked onstage and gestured for quiet. He made the appropriate opening remarks about the musical talent at Yale and then introduced the opening choir performance. After the choir removed themselves from the stage in an orderly fashion, stage hands bustled about, clearing a space and setting up a more intimate diorama, four chairs with a cello and a viola.
Out walked a string quartet that included Tessa.
Her hair fell around her shoulders in a magical, shimmering sheet and she wore a slinky-but-classy, strapless black dress that dropped low on her back.
The guy sitting in front of them gurgled. “I can see the crack of her ass! Is that a heart tattoo?”
Brian leaned forward and tapped the guy’s shoulder. “Excuse me, that’s my future wife. Keep your eyes in their sockets. If you want to keep them.”
David, sitting one row in front of the gurgling guy, heard and swiveled around in his seat. He locked eyes with Brian.
Brian nodded slowly. “Game on.”
----
----
5
Do not go gently; dance, dance into that good night
I was panting and bedraggled as I let myself into the little office inside Collegiate Church where I practice eldercare, and for which I sometimes even get paid. I paused in the foyer beside a poster I had painted: RETIREE DANCE FRIDAY 7:00 PM, WITH
BINGO! An artfully rendered bingo board graced one
Brian turned to look.
I raced away.
----
----
4
Competition in wonderful Woolsey Hall, in that parallel place
A large poster in the rotunda advertised: A NIGHT
OF MUSIC WITH YALE MUSICIANS. Waiting to enter, a crowd muttered and stamped at the doors to the magnificent auditorium with its Grecian-themed murals, white columns, and high, vaulted ceilings.
Brian, wearing a Red Sox shirt, held a program and pointed to a name printed on it.
“Look, Rajiv, Tessa Barnum,” Brian said, reverently. “She plays the cello. She’s talented and beautiful. And smart.”
“Everyone at Yale is smart.” Rajiv craned his neck to look over Brian’s shoulder. In a heavily accented voice, he said, “She doesn’t know you exist.”
“Minor detail.”
“Rama is in the details,” Rajiv observed in a sympathetic tone.
“I like the way her eyes get all soft sometimes.
What is she thinking about? It’s not diffy Q’s,” Brian murmured.
“That’s because you’re not teaching diffy Q’s,” Rajiv said.
“I’m going to ask her out.”
“Bri, man, she’s got a boyfriend from home.”
Brian grinned. “I have to apply inertial force and remove his gravitational influence from her frame of reference. I’m researching her so that I have leverage.”
“Gravity isn’t yet part of the quantum scenario,” Rajiv offered.
“That’s because gravity isn’t a force, it’s a warping of space-time.” Brian would have elaborated, but the doors opened and people streamed in to find seats. Brian and Rajiv hustled their way into the fifth row, center.
Rajiv spied a square-jawed guy with perfect hair taking a seat in the third row. The guy was chatting a little too amiably with a girl with slicked-back hair, heavy black eyeliner, and a diaphanous shirt with a plunging neckline that arrowed between black-painted nipples.
“That is him,” Rajiv said. “The guy with Debbie Doll. She’s the woman in our class with the arm like Yogi Berra.”
“His name is David Mills, and he drove down from Dartmouth,” Brian said. He scanned David coolly. “What’s he doing with Debbie Doll?”
“They say Debbie Doll doesn’t wear underwear,” Rajiv said with a look of supreme curiosity.
“Yogi Berra was a catcher. And a Yankee. What did I tell you about the Yankees?”
“We don’t like the Yankees.”
“I don’t like David Mills,” Brian said.
“He’s hot, you have to admit. Look at him,” Rajiv said.
“He’s trying too hard. He looks like Dudley Do-Right.” Brian would have expounded on the principle but the lights dimmed.
A man in a tux walked onstage and gestured for quiet. He made the appropriate opening remarks about the musical talent at Yale and then introduced the opening choir performance. After the choir removed themselves from the stage in an orderly fashion, stage hands bustled about, clearing a space and setting up a more intimate diorama, four chairs with a cello and a viola.
Out walked a string quartet that included Tessa.
Her hair fell around her shoulders in a magical, shimmering sheet and she wore a slinky-but-classy, strapless black dress that dropped low on her back.
The guy sitting in front of them gurgled. “I can see the crack of her ass! Is that a heart tattoo?”
Brian leaned forward and tapped the guy’s shoulder. “Excuse me, that’s my future wife. Keep your eyes in their sockets. If you want to keep them.”
David, sitting one row in front of the gurgling guy, heard and swiveled around in his seat. He locked eyes with Brian.
Brian nodded slowly. “Game on.”
----
----
5
Do not go gently; dance, dance into that good night
I was panting and bedraggled as I let myself into the little office inside Collegiate Church where I practice eldercare, and for which I sometimes even get paid. I paused in the foyer beside a poster I had painted: RETIREE DANCE FRIDAY 7:00 PM, WITH
BINGO! An artfully rendered bingo board graced one
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