testudfan
On the Prowl
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- Sep 5, 2004
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- Mon cœur est en France
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Thanks guys; I'm glad you're enjoying!
As for a description of Chris... I'm purposefully vague when I'm writing about people. As a personal preference, I don't like being TOLD about what a person looks like, so the way I look at it is: I give (very) small bits of information spread out, so that the beauty is in the eye of the reader for the most part.
For example, we don't know what color Chris's hair is, but we know it's pretty short. We don't know what color his eyes are, but we know that they are expressive (which can ALSO be interpreted as the reader sees fit). And, if you think about it, we know even less about Luke. My characters will evolve physically, but it's not my main goal. Right now, all that matters for me as a writer (and a reader, too) is that Chris is gorgeous-- to Luke.
Aaaaaand with that preface...
Here is Part Next (5, I think?)
Just a note: Life is getting in the way again, so I am spacing out these next few posts so that I actually have things to post in the near future!
_________________Part 5_________________
“You what?”
“Yeah. It was awesome. He wants me to come over for, as he put it, ‘Not an amazing home-cooked meal and not the best movie ever.’”
“NOT the best movie ever?”
“Yeah, we’re not going to re-watch American Beauty so whatever goes in—according to him—will be not the best movie ever.”
“You should watch Brokeback Mountain.”
“I think he said he’s seen it.”
“All the better. A) There’s hot guys. B) You’ve already seen it, so if you happen to, say, miss some scenes—orthewholesecondhalfofthemovie— you won’t get lost. Oh... and it’s a great flick.”
“It’s a win-win situation, huh?”
“Win-win-win,” he countered, alluding to one of our favorite shows.
I laughed, “Nice.”
“I know it. Have fun on your daaa-aaaate.”
“You’re something else today.”
“I’m ALWAYS something else. Call me tomorrow!”
Time definitely seems to move slowest when the anticipation for something amazing is the most prominent thing in your mind. Thankfully, I didn’t blow anything up during my chem lab. When I got home from class—after spending a few minutes with Chris by the wall—I decided what movies I’d bring to Movie Night, Part Deux (and no, Hot Shots! was not among them), finally settling on Brokeback Mountain and Amadeus. I followed Craig’s line of reasoning for the first choice, and picked the second both because it’s one of my favorite films and, at three hours long, it would guarantee me a lot of time for closeness with Chris.
I arrived at Chris’s a few hours later, following a set of directions Chris had given me that pointed out milestones at eighth-of-a-mile intervals, it seemed. You’d have had to be not just bad, but ridiculously awful, with directions not to have found his apartment. It made me smile, as the distance between our apartments was a little under three miles. I just figured he wouldn’t want me to get lost and miss valuable time with me.
I walked up the stairs to his second-story apartment and knocked on the door. A very attractive guy answered the door with a big smile and said, “You must be Luke.”
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you,” I half-stammered. It occurred to me that: I didn’t actually know his name, I didn’t know if this was the friend or the friend’s friend, and I began to realize that despite the fact that the attraction was probably one-sided, this could be my competition. Hopefully my razor wit—and an abruptly self-deprecating sense of humor?—would help me.
“Come on in. Chris has been trying to figure out what to wear for a while now. I keep telling him he doesn’t need to worry about it. But,” he trailed off, eyes roving up and down (Please let this be friend of friend!), “he’s gonna have to do something amazing to compare to you. Damn.”
I had opted for simplicity yet again, wearing just a blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. To say that my wardrobe inspired the comments would be more than a little disingenuous.
“Hey, welcome!” Chris said from the hallway, immediately releasing a lot of the tension I was feeling at the moment. “This is Pete, by the way,” Chris added. I smiled a little wider because his introduction sounded more than a little forced. “Robert will be back later. He’s the one that speaks exactly one sentence of French.”
I laughed and closed the distance between us. I touched the back of his head, feeling the slightly damp short hairs and kissing him lightly, resisting the more intense fervor that had entered me since I entered the apartment. “I’m really glad to be here. Really glad.”
“Me too.” He continued to hold me close and I made no move to leave his embrace.
“It was nice meeting you, Luke. I’m going to go wait for Robert to come home in my bedroom,” he announced in a much-too-loud voice. In response, I ran the tips of my fingers through Chris’s hair in expectation that Pete would just leave already.
“So, what’s for dinner?” I asked in a fake, sultry voice that made him both shiver and giggle mildly. He waited until the sound of footsteps faded and we heard a door shut, also much-too-loudly, to answer:
“I bought a bag of salad.”
He laughed and pulled slightly away to see my expression. Of course, I wasn’t upset; I hadn’t actually been expecting anything, as I figured we’d probably order in and share while watching the movie.
“That’s fine with me.”
“You know, you can be honest.”
“I am. I eat salads all the time.”
“Bagged salads?” he challenged.
He had me there. I gave in: “No. Not bagged salads.”
“I figured.” He smiled. “I didn’t actually plan what we would have, other than I figured we could order something from somewhere, my treat. Or, we could make something, together.”
The emphasis on the last word was not subtle. Nor did it seem entirely self-assured. It was rather nervous, as though the question might be either impertinent or overstepping some undecided boundary. Luckily for him, I was far too smitten to be anything but grateful for the inquiry.
“I’m sure we can find something. What do you have?”
And thus began our first cooking experience (together) that ended up in a semi-random concoction of rice—that I flavored with lemon—some diced chicken, and a can of peas. It was simple, but it tasted rather good. I of course was just pleased that we were in such close proximity to each other for any period of time. He, at the same time, seemed almost too interested at everything I was doing in the kitchen. At the risk of sounding schmaltzy, it was really kind of romantic.
Over dinner we discussed things like our classes and politics, and religion. And by “classes, politics, and religion” I mean which actors we think are cute (we agreed on few, though Jake Gyllenhaal and Nathan Fillion scored high marks in both presentation—overall beauty—and performance—actual acting ability), and how Pete had already engendered my disapproval (big surprise there). Robert came home when we were almost done with dinner and he proved to be very nice, indeed. He also refrained from ogling me, which was a nice change of pace in the roommates-of-the-boy-I’m-dating category.
“I can see why you’d like him. He’s really friendly.”
“Yeah he is. You have a better sense of humor though.” He chuckled. “And... you’re way cuter.”
“Do you want to go for a walk? It’s really nice outside.”
“That was sudden,” he laughed. “Yeah, let me clean up first, though.”
I got up to help him clean the dishes, but he admonished, not unkindly, “No. You go sit down. I got this. You made dinner both days. I can clean up my own kitchen.”
“I know. In fact, I think you’re very capable of loading a dishwasher. It’s an admirable quality.”
“Smart ass.” He smiled out of the corner of his mouth as I went to go put my tennis shoes on.
“We could just walk up to campus from here. Maybe check out the tennis courts, and see if anyone is playing?”
“Why, do you play?”
“As often as I can. It comes with the territory. Love me, love my unabashed obsession with the sport. I’m actually going to the US Open this August. I’m very excited about it.”
“I can tell. You’re smiling broadly enough. I’m ready to go.”
We met by the door and I went to open it. My hand was on the handle when I felt him grab me from behind and his arms encircled my chest. He pulled me VERY tightly against him and kissed the back of my neck. I relaxed into him and he let me go, before opening the door and literally bounding outside, calling “Let’s go! Geez, you’re so slow. You must be terrible on the court!”
I chased him down the stairs before he took off, full flight, toward the road that led to campus. I am in no way as slow as he had joked, but I might as well have been for how fast he moved; lithely and with little effort he sprinted down the yard adjacent to the parking lot. I was clearly putting forth a lot more effort to try to catch up with him. I’d have to ask him what the hell that was all about.
“Dépêche-toi!”
Oh, good, he was tens of yards ahead of me, and shouting in French. Bastard. “I presently hate you!” I half-shouted, half-laughed. This was a bad combination as my side started to ache from doing both at once. Note to self: never look for humor while running. I slowed down significantly and ended up just walking, watching as the distance between Chris and me increased—and then decreased as he looked back, saw me walking, and starting jogging back to me.
“Okay, I’m done.”
“Thank God. I was dying. I said we should go for a walk. You know, that thing where your legs move slowly?” I mocked, emphasizing the “slow”.
“Ooooooh, slowly. I’m unfamiliar with the term. You might have to show me,” and he grabbed my hand, shocking the hell out of me—I’ve never been with someone who would voluntarily hold my hand in public for any length of time—and raised it to his lips where he kissed it before letting it go. “Let’s go check out the tennis courts. So who’s your favorite player?”
“Oh, you probably wouldn’t know her; she’s famous, but not if you don’t pay attention to tennis.”
“Who says I don’t?” He looked over at me, almost hurt, when I realized that I’d never actually asked him what experience he’s had with tennis, and rather just assumed that he didn’t have any.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Her name is Justine Henin.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Do you follow tennis?”
“You could say that.”
“I’m sorry,” I sighed..
“Sorry for what?”
“That I just assumed you didn’t follow. You seemed kind of upset.”
“Oh no, sorry about that. I’m not upset; I was just wondering how I can still talk to you. You see, I was always a much bigger fan of Kim and, well, I’m not sure I’m okay with your allegiance.”
I exhaled and laughed. Thank goodness. “I can work with that, then. If it helps, I always liked Kim, too.”
“It does.” He smiled and looked at me and we walked on. There weren’t any interesting matches taking place on the courts, so we headed back toward the apartment after about forty-five minutes. On the way back, I got ballsy and pulled him in close to me, with my hand around his waist. He acquiesced and we continued on in silence. When we got back to the apartment, it was just a little past 9 PM and I was in no hurry to leave. Unsure of what to say to make this known, I just asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
As for a description of Chris... I'm purposefully vague when I'm writing about people. As a personal preference, I don't like being TOLD about what a person looks like, so the way I look at it is: I give (very) small bits of information spread out, so that the beauty is in the eye of the reader for the most part.
For example, we don't know what color Chris's hair is, but we know it's pretty short. We don't know what color his eyes are, but we know that they are expressive (which can ALSO be interpreted as the reader sees fit). And, if you think about it, we know even less about Luke. My characters will evolve physically, but it's not my main goal. Right now, all that matters for me as a writer (and a reader, too) is that Chris is gorgeous-- to Luke.
Aaaaaand with that preface...
Here is Part Next (5, I think?)
Just a note: Life is getting in the way again, so I am spacing out these next few posts so that I actually have things to post in the near future!
_________________Part 5_________________
“You what?”
“Yeah. It was awesome. He wants me to come over for, as he put it, ‘Not an amazing home-cooked meal and not the best movie ever.’”
“NOT the best movie ever?”
“Yeah, we’re not going to re-watch American Beauty so whatever goes in—according to him—will be not the best movie ever.”
“You should watch Brokeback Mountain.”
“I think he said he’s seen it.”
“All the better. A) There’s hot guys. B) You’ve already seen it, so if you happen to, say, miss some scenes—orthewholesecondhalfofthemovie— you won’t get lost. Oh... and it’s a great flick.”
“It’s a win-win situation, huh?”
“Win-win-win,” he countered, alluding to one of our favorite shows.
I laughed, “Nice.”
“I know it. Have fun on your daaa-aaaate.”
“You’re something else today.”
“I’m ALWAYS something else. Call me tomorrow!”
Time definitely seems to move slowest when the anticipation for something amazing is the most prominent thing in your mind. Thankfully, I didn’t blow anything up during my chem lab. When I got home from class—after spending a few minutes with Chris by the wall—I decided what movies I’d bring to Movie Night, Part Deux (and no, Hot Shots! was not among them), finally settling on Brokeback Mountain and Amadeus. I followed Craig’s line of reasoning for the first choice, and picked the second both because it’s one of my favorite films and, at three hours long, it would guarantee me a lot of time for closeness with Chris.
I arrived at Chris’s a few hours later, following a set of directions Chris had given me that pointed out milestones at eighth-of-a-mile intervals, it seemed. You’d have had to be not just bad, but ridiculously awful, with directions not to have found his apartment. It made me smile, as the distance between our apartments was a little under three miles. I just figured he wouldn’t want me to get lost and miss valuable time with me.
I walked up the stairs to his second-story apartment and knocked on the door. A very attractive guy answered the door with a big smile and said, “You must be Luke.”
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you,” I half-stammered. It occurred to me that: I didn’t actually know his name, I didn’t know if this was the friend or the friend’s friend, and I began to realize that despite the fact that the attraction was probably one-sided, this could be my competition. Hopefully my razor wit—and an abruptly self-deprecating sense of humor?—would help me.
“Come on in. Chris has been trying to figure out what to wear for a while now. I keep telling him he doesn’t need to worry about it. But,” he trailed off, eyes roving up and down (Please let this be friend of friend!), “he’s gonna have to do something amazing to compare to you. Damn.”
I had opted for simplicity yet again, wearing just a blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. To say that my wardrobe inspired the comments would be more than a little disingenuous.
“Hey, welcome!” Chris said from the hallway, immediately releasing a lot of the tension I was feeling at the moment. “This is Pete, by the way,” Chris added. I smiled a little wider because his introduction sounded more than a little forced. “Robert will be back later. He’s the one that speaks exactly one sentence of French.”
I laughed and closed the distance between us. I touched the back of his head, feeling the slightly damp short hairs and kissing him lightly, resisting the more intense fervor that had entered me since I entered the apartment. “I’m really glad to be here. Really glad.”
“Me too.” He continued to hold me close and I made no move to leave his embrace.
“It was nice meeting you, Luke. I’m going to go wait for Robert to come home in my bedroom,” he announced in a much-too-loud voice. In response, I ran the tips of my fingers through Chris’s hair in expectation that Pete would just leave already.
“So, what’s for dinner?” I asked in a fake, sultry voice that made him both shiver and giggle mildly. He waited until the sound of footsteps faded and we heard a door shut, also much-too-loudly, to answer:
“I bought a bag of salad.”
He laughed and pulled slightly away to see my expression. Of course, I wasn’t upset; I hadn’t actually been expecting anything, as I figured we’d probably order in and share while watching the movie.
“That’s fine with me.”
“You know, you can be honest.”
“I am. I eat salads all the time.”
“Bagged salads?” he challenged.
He had me there. I gave in: “No. Not bagged salads.”
“I figured.” He smiled. “I didn’t actually plan what we would have, other than I figured we could order something from somewhere, my treat. Or, we could make something, together.”
The emphasis on the last word was not subtle. Nor did it seem entirely self-assured. It was rather nervous, as though the question might be either impertinent or overstepping some undecided boundary. Luckily for him, I was far too smitten to be anything but grateful for the inquiry.
“I’m sure we can find something. What do you have?”
And thus began our first cooking experience (together) that ended up in a semi-random concoction of rice—that I flavored with lemon—some diced chicken, and a can of peas. It was simple, but it tasted rather good. I of course was just pleased that we were in such close proximity to each other for any period of time. He, at the same time, seemed almost too interested at everything I was doing in the kitchen. At the risk of sounding schmaltzy, it was really kind of romantic.
Over dinner we discussed things like our classes and politics, and religion. And by “classes, politics, and religion” I mean which actors we think are cute (we agreed on few, though Jake Gyllenhaal and Nathan Fillion scored high marks in both presentation—overall beauty—and performance—actual acting ability), and how Pete had already engendered my disapproval (big surprise there). Robert came home when we were almost done with dinner and he proved to be very nice, indeed. He also refrained from ogling me, which was a nice change of pace in the roommates-of-the-boy-I’m-dating category.
“I can see why you’d like him. He’s really friendly.”
“Yeah he is. You have a better sense of humor though.” He chuckled. “And... you’re way cuter.”
“Do you want to go for a walk? It’s really nice outside.”
“That was sudden,” he laughed. “Yeah, let me clean up first, though.”
I got up to help him clean the dishes, but he admonished, not unkindly, “No. You go sit down. I got this. You made dinner both days. I can clean up my own kitchen.”
“I know. In fact, I think you’re very capable of loading a dishwasher. It’s an admirable quality.”
“Smart ass.” He smiled out of the corner of his mouth as I went to go put my tennis shoes on.
“We could just walk up to campus from here. Maybe check out the tennis courts, and see if anyone is playing?”
“Why, do you play?”
“As often as I can. It comes with the territory. Love me, love my unabashed obsession with the sport. I’m actually going to the US Open this August. I’m very excited about it.”
“I can tell. You’re smiling broadly enough. I’m ready to go.”
We met by the door and I went to open it. My hand was on the handle when I felt him grab me from behind and his arms encircled my chest. He pulled me VERY tightly against him and kissed the back of my neck. I relaxed into him and he let me go, before opening the door and literally bounding outside, calling “Let’s go! Geez, you’re so slow. You must be terrible on the court!”
I chased him down the stairs before he took off, full flight, toward the road that led to campus. I am in no way as slow as he had joked, but I might as well have been for how fast he moved; lithely and with little effort he sprinted down the yard adjacent to the parking lot. I was clearly putting forth a lot more effort to try to catch up with him. I’d have to ask him what the hell that was all about.
“Dépêche-toi!”
Oh, good, he was tens of yards ahead of me, and shouting in French. Bastard. “I presently hate you!” I half-shouted, half-laughed. This was a bad combination as my side started to ache from doing both at once. Note to self: never look for humor while running. I slowed down significantly and ended up just walking, watching as the distance between Chris and me increased—and then decreased as he looked back, saw me walking, and starting jogging back to me.
“Okay, I’m done.”
“Thank God. I was dying. I said we should go for a walk. You know, that thing where your legs move slowly?” I mocked, emphasizing the “slow”.
“Ooooooh, slowly. I’m unfamiliar with the term. You might have to show me,” and he grabbed my hand, shocking the hell out of me—I’ve never been with someone who would voluntarily hold my hand in public for any length of time—and raised it to his lips where he kissed it before letting it go. “Let’s go check out the tennis courts. So who’s your favorite player?”
“Oh, you probably wouldn’t know her; she’s famous, but not if you don’t pay attention to tennis.”
“Who says I don’t?” He looked over at me, almost hurt, when I realized that I’d never actually asked him what experience he’s had with tennis, and rather just assumed that he didn’t have any.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Her name is Justine Henin.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Do you follow tennis?”
“You could say that.”
“I’m sorry,” I sighed..
“Sorry for what?”
“That I just assumed you didn’t follow. You seemed kind of upset.”
“Oh no, sorry about that. I’m not upset; I was just wondering how I can still talk to you. You see, I was always a much bigger fan of Kim and, well, I’m not sure I’m okay with your allegiance.”
I exhaled and laughed. Thank goodness. “I can work with that, then. If it helps, I always liked Kim, too.”
“It does.” He smiled and looked at me and we walked on. There weren’t any interesting matches taking place on the courts, so we headed back toward the apartment after about forty-five minutes. On the way back, I got ballsy and pulled him in close to me, with my hand around his waist. He acquiesced and we continued on in silence. When we got back to the apartment, it was just a little past 9 PM and I was in no hurry to leave. Unsure of what to say to make this known, I just asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
and it looks promising too....Looking forward to the next one. 
Need to sharpen up on my vocabs. 
I will miss this story...
