Lost in Contemplation: A portrait of actress Marilyn Monroe, shot by photographer Richard Avedon in May 6, 1957. I don’t know what to exactly think or feel anymore. I could choose to be happy, but the source of all my joy is currently residing in wonderland.

A few nights ago, I met this guy at a house party. Dub step screamed in the background, but we pushed it aside into the closet. He: an aspiring photographer; I: an ambitious college student who looks up to Rupert Murdoch and Pulitzer Prize winning journalists. His name is Jonathan. I told him that I was going to rule the world someday. Something about his red and gray plaid shirt and neon orange bow-tie, all pulled together by a pair of navy blue skinny jeans, made him look both approachable and respectable. Jonathan had a deep voice suited for a children’s audio-book. Every other sentence, he said sorry, which made him extremely adorable. Of course, two days after achieving sobriety, I have to say, it was absolutely inappropriate to confess random facts about my personal life. However, the flashing disco ball and the aftereffects of the blunt untied every knot inside of me.

I don’t remember everything, but I woke in my friend’s bed, facing Jonathan. No, we were fully clothed, except for our shoes – our toes were touching. Quietly, I got off the bed and put on my nylon jacket. The zipper woke Jonathon up. “You leaving?” He rubbed his eyes.

“Yeah… sorry I made so much noise.” My hands sought solace by hiding in the front pockets of my jacket.

Before I could turn towards the doorknob, Jonathan offered to drive me home, and I replied, “Yes, that would be delightful. Delightful? What am I, a Victorian courtesan all of a sudden? My hands dug deeper into the pockets with such embarrassment that they started sweating tears. Why did the Lord bless me with such extraneous amounts of awkwardness?

We arrived at our house and then exchanged our goodbyes. Before closing the car door, Jonathon asked for my number. There were a million questions flashing through my head as I spelled out my digits.

“Let’s keep in touch, mister media mogul,” he said. How was I supposed to respond to that? I smiled at the thought of Jonathon actually remembering the silly things I said from the night of the party.

“That would be… nice.” I managed to not say delightful again. I saw him driving off the cul-de-sac feeling, strangely, a bit melancholic. I haven’t been the same since. I was walking down the park the next day after submitting a few job applications at the mall, and the trees looked like… trees. The birds chirping in the corners of my eyes sounded like quartets strumming for Romeo and Juliet. Since when did the sky have clouds in the shape of sunflowers, emitting infinite yards of crystalline twilight? Even the tiniest pebbles dotting the sidewalks seem to be cheering a subtle, “Hello! Life is beautiful isn’t it?”

Yes, life is beautiful. I just hope he calls me soon.

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About Joseph Park

Joseph Park—Editor of ZEPHYR View all posts by Joseph Park

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