Edward Degas had a talent for capturing the female form. In paintings, in sketches, in sculptures. He certainly had a thing for ballerinas. And naked women. Nude, rather. There's a difference between naked and nude, you know. A big difference actually. Have you ever thought about it? You emerge into this world naked. A crying, balled up, defenseless little thing. That's definitely naked, not nude. Nude implies a certain confidence and comfort in one's own skin.
But back to Degas. There's one painting he did that reminds me of a certain girl. I'm not much of an art guy, but I saw this painting once when I was visiting Paris with my family and I've always remembered it. It's a painting of a woman, sitting nude on the edge of a bed. Her bed. Her lover's bed. Someone's bed at least. Anyway, she's sitting there on this bed sort of arching her body up, the outline of her breasts silhouetted in the foreground, her beautiful auburn-brown hair falling over her outstretched arms in a loose ponytail. Her elegant neck is extended into the air as she dries her nape with a towel. It's a beautiful painting. You can't see her face. Just the long lines of her back. And her winged shoulder blades. And the outline her breasts. And nipples. The woman is nude. Not naked.
My name is Ethan. I'm a grad student in a city of a billion students. A city right next to another city with another billion students. Separated by a river. I bet you could guess the university I'm at if you wanted to, but we're not really here to talk about my studies. I'm pursuing English and Philosophy, if you wanted to know. Yes, you might as well stamp "Nerd" on my forehead. Though, for the last 24 years I've managed to internalize most of my nerdiness, and luckily for me it tends to only manifest itself in ways that many girls find endearing. I don't know what happened at the turn of the century when the whole Nerd Renaissance brought on gaggles of girls looking for men who collect comic books, play Halo, and pride themselves on their Netflix queues full of obscure foreign films. I think it has something to do with that annoying kid from "The O.C". Not that I ever watched that show. Ahem. Apart from geeking out over 20th century literature and literary theory (wake up, I'm still talking) I'm pretty much a normal guy. I work(ed) at this café in Harvard square and teach an SAT prep course to help keep me out of abject poverty. Luckily I'll be teaching some courses in the fall, because, well recently, I've had a falling out at my job. But we'll get to that in a little while. First I want to talk about that girl.
To be naked is to be exposed and vulnerable. Naked is embarrassing. Uncomfortable. So I guess to say that I've felt naked throughout the majority of my relationship with Allegra is pretty accurate. The first time I laid eyes on Allegra she was walking into the café last September looking for a job. She was 22, and also a student, a year behind in her studies in art history after taking two semesters off when her single mother had been battling cancer. Her mom had recovered, and she'd gone back to school. And I think I fell in love with her by the time she told me this on her first shift with me. I was seeing another girl at the time. A really great girl, but I knew we weren't heading anywhere serious. Instead I was fascinated by Allegra. I found myself looking forward to shifts with her, and gradually developing a closer friendship. We'd chat with each other even on our days off. Sometimes hang out together after work with other people from the café. Eventually my girlfriend and I broke up, but I was hesitant to pursue Allegra right away. I liked what we had together.
In a word Allegra is adorable. She hums jingles while she puts things back in the stock room. Her short, pretty nails are always painted these crazy bright colors. Right now they're tangerine. When the weather's bad she wears these ugly men's rain boots you'd see some guy wearing on a fishing show on the Discovery Channel, but she somehow makes them work. She's always smiling. Even when she's stressed and tired. I know what you're thinking, what's wrong with me, why didn't I just ask her out? That
is
what you're thinking, right? Well of course I fucking thought about that. Unfortunately Allegra is not only irresistible to me, but apparently her charms extend to others as well, and she has unfortunately settled these charms on this creepy (albeit I am a little biased) Italian gallery owner she met a couple of months ago. Stefano. Just saying his name makes me feel a little nauseous. Her eyes would light up whenever he came into the store, and I'd be forced to stand there watching them coo all over each other while I made his stupid cappuccinos. You'd never believe how much the idea of going to jail for poisoning and attempted murder doesn't suck when you're watching a creepy Italian dude touch the girl you're in love with.
I found myself at a loss of what to do. I've always been relatively confident around women, despite my sometimes-nerdy qualities. I'm an attractive guy by most standards. I dress well and practice good hygiene, all that good stuff. I played soccer most of my life and ran throughout high school and college. Allegra is beautiful, I know that. But I'm not so bad. We'd look nice together. Not that I often think of this or anything. But there are sometimes when she seems interested. Take this night for example.
I was in the book and magazine aisle of CVS one night when I heard my cell phone ringing. I didn't need to look to see who it was. She'd stolen my phone and bought and personalized her own ring tone while she was on a break a couple weeks back. I chuckled hearing it, and quickly flipped it open,
"You need to remind me to change this ring tone," I sighed. I heard her giggle on the other end.
"You don't like it? Come on, you paid 2.99 for it, you should at least enjoy it for a few more weeks," she said playfully.
"Well, it's a little embarrassing, for me at least, to be out in public and have "Nuthin But a 'G' Thang" emanating from your pocket."
She laughed and we continued to tease each other about our respective stories of the day as I put down the men's magazine I was flipping through, and narrowed in on a magazine with a young emaciated actress on the cover, one of the subheadings addressed to men and "how to please their ladies."
"I can't believe he's dead," she sighed, continuing our conversation as I flipped to the table of contents, just curious to see what the article had to say (I mean, I probably knew everything they had to say already, right?).
"I know, to think we were dancing to him just the other night," I sighed, not really caring about Michael Jackson, but amused at the thought of us goofily dancing across the store after we closed the week before.
We'd been cleaning up the floors when an old classic had come on the radio and soon we were snapping and spinning, and before I knew it was sliding as deftly I could in my brown Pumas across the tiles, trying my best moonwalk.
"So how'd I do," I'd asked after, still panting slightly from my exertions.
"You looked like this epileptic cat my great aunt once had," she'd said staring at me. Her lips didn't falter but I'd seen see the smile in her eyes.
I almost laughed into the phone, just remembering that cute little bemused smile she gave me whenever she was trying to be mean, when I heard a crash of items falling behind me.
"Where are you anyway?" She asked undoubtedly hearing the loud, pharmacy-aisle-monopolizing mother and her litter of children charging past me as I struggled to maintain my footing against the passing tide of Velcro sneakers.
"I'm just picking up some stuff in CVS," I said, shooting one freckled face child a dirty look as he pushed into me.
"What stuff?" she asked curiously. My eyes widened in panic as I realized the only things I'd even contemplated buying were the stupid magazine I'd been thumbing with its article about giving a woman the perfect oral orgasm and this cleansing face wash I liked.
"Er, uh, you know. Man stuff. Need some more whey protein mix, that Axe body spray stuff, energy bars, condoms. Nothing weird. At all," I said, fighting the urge to shove the magazine in my own mouth.
"Uh huh," she said suspiciously, "sounds normal."
"You're a nosy thing, you know that?" I asked, trying not to think about how nice it would be to give her an orgasm with my mouth and tongue. I quickly flung the magazine back on its rack as though it were covered in anthrax.
"I do know that. I have another nosy question for you," she said, sounding impossibly cute.
"What is that?" I asked hoping it wasn't too nosy, because I was in a mood to tell her things I shouldn't.
