the Artists

His art was spectacular. I could spend hours looking at it, admiring the effort and work put into the exquisite pieces he makes. Each detail pronounced in it’s own way. He had an eye, one that he knew how to use very well. And that’s what I fell in love with first, his art.
If it wasn’t for that one art class we had together, I’m sure I wouldn’t have noticed him. It’s not that I wouldn’t of given him a second look if I had not seen his art. It was more or less of the fact that he was a junior. And I, a mere freshman. It was the fact that this art class was the first time I saw him. That I would have never fell for him, if it wasn’t for that one class.
I look for him, daily. But never happen to see him. My close friends know about my infatuation with him. And they support me fully. Tell me to go talk to him, it won’t hurt. But, how can one go talk to someone just spontaneously? Shouldn’t their be a reason? He lent me a dime once, last year, should I return it now?

His names Eric. A common name applied to a extraordinary boy. I can see him, one day, make it big. I don’t know if he aspires to be an artist, but I know that if he did, he would be able to succeed.

He’s a senior, now. And even though I’m not that mere freshman anymore, I’m still an underclassmen. I hope that one semester, before he leaves, that I get a chance to talk to him.

I envision, sometimes, our meeting:
I happen to enter the same University has him, and a chance encounter occurs. I bump into him at a local coffee shop or something. I call out in surprise, “Eric. Right?”
And he’ll reply, with my name. We get coffee, and realize that we have similar tastes.
And then we slowly become great friends which gradually leads us to dating. And sooner or later love.

Like that would ever happen .

But that still doesn’t stop me. I can’t help myself. I keep seeing him, imagining over meetings, our conversations. That never happened.


I’m older now, in my sophomore year of University. And has chance had it, I applied to the same one has in.
And got in. We crossed paths, once. He didn’t recognize me.

I think something died in me a little.

A year later.

My luck has never been outstandingly great, but this had surprised me to no definite end.
My friend knew him.
My friend liked him.
My friend asked him out.
He said yes.

I stood there, frozen. My friend looked at me in confusion.
“Aren’t you happy for me?”
How could I say yes, when everything inside of me was commanding me to say no?
I remained silent.
“He’s coming over, to pick me up. You should say hi.”

He’s coming over. Maybe he’ll recognize me.
Maybe he won’t.

He knocks on the door, and my friend rushes to open.
“Eric!” She exclaims. “I’d like you to meet my friend.”
He comes in, and looks at me.
A flash of intuition, I saw in his eyes.
He recognized me?
He says my name. I gasp. My friend gasps.
“You know her?” She asks.
“Yes.” He replies, not saying anymore.

My friend looks at us, back and forth. Forth and back. Slowly, but surely the same flash of intuition I saw in his eyes, I now saw in hers.

She knows.
She know how I feel.
She knows why I didn’t say anything, earlier.
She knows.

She fakes a phone call, and comes back in a few minutes later.

“Eric, love. Something urgent came up, can we cancel tonight?”
He nods, and leaves.
He didn’t say anything to me. Not one word.
Why?
Normal people would say hi, and say it’s be forever.
But. He’s not normal. He’s Eric.

She laughs nervously. “Aren’t we in a predicament? I like Eric, and so do you.”
I don’t like him, I love him.
I just stare; I don’t know what to say.
“Why? Why do you like him?” She looks as if she’s about to be in tears.
I want to be selfish, say that he’s mine, and back off.
But she’s my friend.
I can’t do that to her.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know.”
She laughs again, but this time it isn’t because of nerves.
She’s scared.
“He’s mine, hun’. I’m going out with him, not you,” she says.
She slams the door behind her.

I turn on the T.V., and sit there. Numbly. Tears slowly creep down.
I hear a knock on my door.
I quickly wipe my tears, and open it.

It’s him.

He says my name. “Are you okay.”
I want to tell him that he remembered my name. “I’m okay,” I pause, “She’s not here right now.”
“I know.”
I stare at him, confused. “Then. Then why are you here?”
He doesn’t say anything, pushes past me to go sit on the couch.
I close the door behind me, and sit across from him.

“Do you remember,” I ask, “that art class we were in together. When you were a freshman?”
He smiles softly, “Yes. I do.”
“And that time you got mad at the vending machines because it wouldn’t accept your dollar. And you didn’t have enough change.”
“You still have to pay me back that dime,” he jokes
I laugh, “I do, I do.”
“Why didn’t you say anything when she introduced you?”
“What should I have done? I was in shock that you were standing right in front of me. I couldn’t believe that you are dating her.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Eric,” I breathe. “Do you still paint?”
He looks confused, “Yes.”
I smile, “That’s what I fell in love with first. Your art.”

His mouth forms the shape of an ‘O’, as he finally understands.
He looks at me and has a heavenly smile on his face. His eyes are blazing.

“That’s what I first fell in love with, too.”