The Intellectual

         I sipped my coffee and smiled as I thought of the man I adored. It had been nearly a year since I last laid eyes on him, yet he never left my mind. I mentally thanked my Advanced Composition teacher for this assignment. Because of her, he would exist not only in my thoughts, but on paper as well.
         Gladly forcing myself to remember my Public Speaking course, I began to type. This action was short-lived as my mind quickly wandered and became lost in an entanglement of fantastic memories. He was quirky. Dry. Intellectual. Perfect.
         “Young Scholars, compose yourselves,” he would say at the beginning of each class period.
         I was in awe.
         His lofty speech captured and grasped my attention.
         He was beautiful.
         I started to type. His physical features were of little importance; however, I could not help but mention those first.
         Face.
         No.
         My indecisiveness became evident.
         Eyes.
         Eyes as blue as the sky.
         No. Bluer. More blue than the sea or the sky or anything blue for that matter.
         Complex. Complex thoughts can be seen through the eyes. Eyes that examine every detail and attract the attention of any student who looks in their direction…

         I could barely contain myself. I felt light-headed but every word-- every stroke onto the keyboard had a purpose.

         The man speaks, and he begins to laugh at his own comments. He laughs at himself, displaying a small grin, which does not overwhelm his face, but is obvious to all who gaze upon him. His head cocks to the side and shakes ever so slightly, giving life to his subtle smile.

         I shivered as I remembered his smile. My body clamed up. I became paralyzed and every brain cell fought for its own sanity. I thought to question my fascination, but it was obvious that he would be mine. He was cocky. Brilliant. Perfect.
         I typed the last chunk of my descriptive paper. I felt empty, yet comforted. A year’s worth of built-up emotion had been released. A part of me hoped that the assignment would cleanse me of my infatuation. It was irrational. But he was perfect. He met and exceeded my high expectations. He was the only one who could.
         My writing only served as fuel for my idealistic perception of the situation. My feelings became malignant and began to feed upon my body. I would drive at night and every song that played through my car’s speakers reminded me of him. As the light from my headlights reflected back into the car, I would hope to see his face looking over at me from the passenger seat. I thought of the millions of possible conversations we could have together. Politics. Literature. Rhetoric. Music.
         I became lonely. I began to miss the conversations I never had. Everyday these thoughts would take over for some period of time. They controlled me. I loved it. It was perfect.
         After a while, the fantasies I had previously created became more detailed and desirable. Nothing was sexual. It was slightly romantic. It was intellectual. Everything was conversation based. While sipping on half glasses of pinot noir, we would in engage in legnthy dialoge. He would finish my sentences and I would smile. He would be my teacher. My mentor. Our conversations would be perfect.
My assignment for Advanced Composition made me want to hear others’ thoughts on my increasingly irrational, yet incredibly satisfying state of mind.
         “So, I have this problem.” I sheepishly stated.
         “What’s up?”
         “You know how I kinda… umm… like older guys; teachers and such?” I muttered out embarrassingly.
         “Ha! YES.”
         “Well, there’s this one. I can’t really stop thinking about him. It’s been a year.”
         This statement only provoked more intense feelings. It was a year of hell, but I loved every second of that hell. It was pain. It was longing. If only we could talk together.
         “WHO IS IT???!” my one person audience squealed.
         “It doesn’t matter. What should I do?”
         “WHO IS IT???!”
         “Um,” I paused, “You might know him from Drama and from French last year.”
         “NO! EWWW.”
         “Yeah, that’s him.”
         “You know he’s gay, right.”
         I became silent.
         “No.” I said painfully. It was as if my flesh had just been carved into with a serrated blade.
         Thoughts raced through my mind. It couldn’t be true. He was perfect. PERFECT. I became angry, but I didn’t show it.
          “Yeah, totally. My hairdresser knows him from the Center for the Arts. Says he always brings his boy toys back stage and brags about them.”
         I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. He was perfect.
Internally thrashing about, I knew something had to be done. Why wouldn’t it end? Why couldn’t I forget about him? Why couldn’t I just become obsessed with the quarterback of the football team?
I know why.
Because he is perfect.