actress today, right?”
“Yeah,”
“And…”
“It was ok. She is not what I anticipated.”
“People often surprise us. But tell me, in which way was she different?”
“I don’t know Dan. I thought she was going to be this conceited woman, but she wasn’t. She was kind of nice.” I rub my hands over my jeans.
“Then, what was the problem?”
“Dan did you ever doubt your values and your faith?”
“Sure. Many times.”
“Today I almost betrayed what I consider to be most precious to me.”
“Your said you almost , so I assume you did not go through with whatever you struggled with.”
“I didn’t. But what bothers me is the way I felt. How can I doubt my beliefs and worse almost betray it?”
“Oh, Will, any value worth keeping should stand the test of doubt.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“OK, I am done. Let’s go have lunch and we can talk over your doubts.” He puts his arm over my shoulder, ushering me out of the office.
It has been a week since I met Portia. After spending a few hours with her, I doubted my entire belief system. But talking to Dan reassured me that I am doing the right thing.
I don’t dwell on the past. But in one morning, this woman single-handedly revived an untamed side of me, where lack of restraint abounds. It took years for the angry, scared homeless kid to turn into a man with self-control. I am not about to undo that now.
We are on opposite sides of the spectrum. While I live a simple, quiet life, she is rich, gorgeous, famous, and leads a wild life. She is a paradox. At a glance, she displays a shallow image. Yet, at a closer look, her haunted, sad eyes dismiss all the nasty gossip associated with her name. Not that any of it matters. As of now, I will most likely never see her again, unless, she decides to ink her flawless skin. I won’t hold my breath though, women like Portia, don’t waste a second shot on a guy. Damn, she did take a shot at me. My pulse speeds with the thought of her melting inside my arms.
Back at Mystic Ink, I find myself fidgeting, my eyes glued to my laptop screen as I wait for a Portia fan site to display the latest pictures of her. Sickening. I ought to be ashamed. I’ve become her stalker. Pathetic? Yeah…
Though it’s been a week since I met her, for the life of me, I can’t erase her gorgeous face from my mind.
A series of pictures of Portia plop on the screen. Though I’ve seen them a thousand times, I scroll down again. In one picture, the musician Tarry Francis—I hate the guy already—has his arms draped over her shoulders and is kissing her full lips as they leave a nightclub. According to the site, their romance is stronger than ever, she is pregnant, they just eloped, and she caught him in bed with his band’s male drummer. The gossip goes on and on.
All bullshit, I know. These photographs are not poorly angled shots taken out of context and manipulated to sell. The moron has his tongue down her throat. The following footage shows Tarry flipping the finger to the paparazzi as she beams, before she hides her face on his shoulder. I recognize the smile. It is the flirtatious one, saying I don’t give a crap.
I shove the top of the laptop closed.
“Whoa, sonny boy. You shouldn’t navigate those sites, if you know you’re not going to like what you find,” Rick says from behind the shop counter.
Rick is the founder of Mystic Ink. Technically, he was my father’s partner. Meeting him was one of the things that perfectly lined up for me after Dan entered my life. For reasons beyond my understanding, there is the time before Dan when everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and the post-Dan, where everything that could go right went right. Weird, huh? Also mind-blowing.
I met Rick when I was eighteen. Dan and I had gone over my long and repulsive record. You know, it’s the file social workers keep as there is no one other way to share how cute I was at the age of six or
“Yeah,”
“And…”
“It was ok. She is not what I anticipated.”
“People often surprise us. But tell me, in which way was she different?”
“I don’t know Dan. I thought she was going to be this conceited woman, but she wasn’t. She was kind of nice.” I rub my hands over my jeans.
“Then, what was the problem?”
“Dan did you ever doubt your values and your faith?”
“Sure. Many times.”
“Today I almost betrayed what I consider to be most precious to me.”
“Your said you almost , so I assume you did not go through with whatever you struggled with.”
“I didn’t. But what bothers me is the way I felt. How can I doubt my beliefs and worse almost betray it?”
“Oh, Will, any value worth keeping should stand the test of doubt.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“OK, I am done. Let’s go have lunch and we can talk over your doubts.” He puts his arm over my shoulder, ushering me out of the office.
It has been a week since I met Portia. After spending a few hours with her, I doubted my entire belief system. But talking to Dan reassured me that I am doing the right thing.
I don’t dwell on the past. But in one morning, this woman single-handedly revived an untamed side of me, where lack of restraint abounds. It took years for the angry, scared homeless kid to turn into a man with self-control. I am not about to undo that now.
We are on opposite sides of the spectrum. While I live a simple, quiet life, she is rich, gorgeous, famous, and leads a wild life. She is a paradox. At a glance, she displays a shallow image. Yet, at a closer look, her haunted, sad eyes dismiss all the nasty gossip associated with her name. Not that any of it matters. As of now, I will most likely never see her again, unless, she decides to ink her flawless skin. I won’t hold my breath though, women like Portia, don’t waste a second shot on a guy. Damn, she did take a shot at me. My pulse speeds with the thought of her melting inside my arms.
Back at Mystic Ink, I find myself fidgeting, my eyes glued to my laptop screen as I wait for a Portia fan site to display the latest pictures of her. Sickening. I ought to be ashamed. I’ve become her stalker. Pathetic? Yeah…
Though it’s been a week since I met her, for the life of me, I can’t erase her gorgeous face from my mind.
A series of pictures of Portia plop on the screen. Though I’ve seen them a thousand times, I scroll down again. In one picture, the musician Tarry Francis—I hate the guy already—has his arms draped over her shoulders and is kissing her full lips as they leave a nightclub. According to the site, their romance is stronger than ever, she is pregnant, they just eloped, and she caught him in bed with his band’s male drummer. The gossip goes on and on.
All bullshit, I know. These photographs are not poorly angled shots taken out of context and manipulated to sell. The moron has his tongue down her throat. The following footage shows Tarry flipping the finger to the paparazzi as she beams, before she hides her face on his shoulder. I recognize the smile. It is the flirtatious one, saying I don’t give a crap.
I shove the top of the laptop closed.
“Whoa, sonny boy. You shouldn’t navigate those sites, if you know you’re not going to like what you find,” Rick says from behind the shop counter.
Rick is the founder of Mystic Ink. Technically, he was my father’s partner. Meeting him was one of the things that perfectly lined up for me after Dan entered my life. For reasons beyond my understanding, there is the time before Dan when everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and the post-Dan, where everything that could go right went right. Weird, huh? Also mind-blowing.
I met Rick when I was eighteen. Dan and I had gone over my long and repulsive record. You know, it’s the file social workers keep as there is no one other way to share how cute I was at the age of six or
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