Symposium of souls

So I was on stumbleupon.com and came across this guy, http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/4026.Pablo_Neruda

and I was instantly pulled in.  He's fantastic and I love his stuff, and it sort of inspired me to do something a little more animalistic/darker than I normally do.  That, combined with my fascination of Plato's idea that man was originally created as a being with two heads, four arms, and four legs that was separated by the Gods and cursed to forever search for their perfect other half has spawned this story.  This is part one of... um, probably three, but I might stretch it out further.  It'll take a little bit to really get to the intention of this little short story/novella, but background is key when making something worth reading, so bear with me.  Here's my attempt, hope you enjoy:

          I'd spent almost every free moment I had waiting for him to return here.  I'd been let down day after day and I'd convinced myself that this was the last time I'd do this; I'd have to squash my hopes of crossing paths with him again.  I'd only seen him a few times, and only ever from a distance.  I don't know if you believe in soul mates, but the idea of a perfect match being created and then released into the world only for you to have a minimal chance of meeting them is so astounding that the second I laid eyes on him, I became a believer.  He was rough and unkempt, but made it look so intentional that I found it easy to believe that he wanted people to have the impression that he was a bum.  Of course, for what reason, I hadn't the slightest idea.  His backpack was held together by duct tape and years of dirt and scum, and it was obvious his clothing was vintage.  Real vintage, like the stuff you find in your parent's attic, not the pretend shit that you can buy at Goodwill or those crappy "thrift" stores; no, this was the kind that Mom and Pop stowed away years before they brought you into the world, knowing that they had to grow out of the old ways they loved so much, but hoping that in the future, when they wanted to reminisce, they could simply go upstairs and rummage through their things to spark a memory that was long buried inside them.  Of course, he had probably jumped the gun, and out of a rebellious attempt at sticking it to them, decided he was going to claim the long lost things of their past as his own and sport them with indignant pride.

          I wasn't close enough to catch a whiff of him, but I imagined he didn't take the hobo look so far that he smelled of mildew and rotting flesh.  He looked clean and I got the distinct impression that he would smell like one of those Abercrombie stores, maybe not so obvious though, or at least I hoped.  His super dark hair was definitely not natural and his attempt at bed-head made him look surprisingly like a Rob Pattinson wanna-be, but not so much so that it repulsed me.

          The first time I saw him, he was reading under a tree in the quad and I literally laughed out loud to myself because he exuded this typical cry for attention and was taking this feeble stab at making him look "so retro" and one of those misunderstood guys so in touch with his feelings.  I was hardly about to give him a second glance, but he must have heard me mocking him from afar and looked up, a determined and serious grin spreading across his face.  His gaze locked on mine, making me feel this uncontrollable shiver inside my soul, however corny that sounds.  We shared more than the normal few seconds contact before the sounds of our surroundings encroached on our moment, but that was enough to ignite this irrepressible yearn I had for him, one that I didn't even know existed until the moment I realized he knew exactly what he was doing.  Thinking back, it sort of creeped me out to think that he knew he could reel me in in such a way, even though I initially found him quite cliché.

          After that moment, though, he got up and I didn't see him again for a few days.  At first, I tried to tell myself I was only returning to that spot because I wanted to, but I had only been there at that time, on that day, in that spot, because of other unforeseen circumstances that I knew weren't normal occurrences, like class getting canceled because the room where we met was flooded.  When he finally returned, I found myself trying not to stare at him, but instead, giving him a reason to stare at me, and I was hit with the realization that I had been jonesing for him, like he was a drug I was addicted to and I had been unable to get the necessary fix.  I'd deliberately worn an exceptionally attractive and revealing shirt and had taken the moment when he first sat down to slowly strip off my light jacket.  I used my fantastic peripheral vision to see that I had snagged a second of his attention, but he quickly diverted his eyes back to whatever brooding bromance novella he was so engrossed in.  I had come prepared, however, and knew that anytime he flipped a page, his head would be turned just so that he could see me out of the corner of his eye.  I waited, calculating my next move, trying desperately not to make it so obvious, so when my small window appeared, I decided I had to reach into my bag of tricks and pull out the classic hair-fall move.  I reached up and pulled out the furiously chewed-on pencil that acted as the pin in my French-twist hair grenade, allowing my long locks to explode out of itself and fall perfectly down my back and over my bare shoulders.  In the past, my hair had always proved a valuable weapon for me; its long, dark sleekness seemed to draw the attention of everyone around, males and females alike, and I'd been told more times than I could count how similar it was to the cartoon girl, Emily the Strange.  It was something I took pride in, to say the least, and I'd perfected using it to my advantage.  And it certainly didn't let me down this time.

          This time, I didn't hide my obvious attempt at making sure he saw me.  This time, I took charge and stared him straight in his eyes.  This time, I wanted to make an impression that would make him want to come back again for another glimpse.  A small and inviting, yet eerily dark grin crept over his lips, and I found myself becoming slightly aroused by the unknown yet enticing meaning behind it.  Before he could break our locked gaze, I reached down and swept up my books in my slightly shaking arms and stood from my perch on the giant stone steps.  Without looking back, I slowly sashayed away from him and into a hopeful future.

          But when I returned the next day, he wasn't there.  Nor was he there the day after or for the rest of the week.  Naturally, I assumed I'd made too bold a move and began to overanalyze and break down every gesture that I made, finally deciding if he couldn't handle the amount of fancy I purposely radiated, he certainly wasn't worth any more of my wooing.  Like any girl with a crush, because let's face it, that's exactly what this was, I spent a few nights out of my week coming up with completely unrealistic scenarios where he'd sweep me off my independent feet and make me realize exactly what I'd been missing in my life.  But getting my hopes up wasn't going to make the impact of rejection any less harmful, even if there was really nothing put out there to reject in the first place.

To Be Continued...

Hope you'll come back next week to read part two!