John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel

4 My Platonic Sweetheart

4 My Platonic Sweetheart You are watching Gina as she reclines in the chaise lounge in the backyard of her Wichita boardinghouse. You are thinking to yourself thatsheisimmaculateinherwhitebikinitopandperiwinkleshorts,the sun splashing down in spangles across her exacting face, her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a twist behind her head. A pair of oversized sunglasses rests on her face. You gaze at her lips, her dewy, vibrant lips. You feel that there is something dirty about her—racy even—as she lounges in the sun. The downy hairs above her navel glistening in the daylight, her lithe arms stretching along her sides as she adjusts the line of her shorts with her hands. You adore them—her pretty pouty lips. You cannot help yourself, but you do. You think about how different she is from the girl you first met in French class a million years ago during your freshman term. Back then, she dressed impeccably—and prudishly, too. She was more prim. More proper. More demure. She was more—how should you phrase it?—she was more like you. But now you feel that she has become wanton. She is seductive. She even seems a little forbidden. She has become wrong for you. So very, very wrong for you. My Platonic Sweetheart 23 You observe as Gina abruptly gets up from the chaise lounge and pulls a pair of black sweatpants over her shorts. You gaze at her as she walks away from you toward the boardinghouse, the word “trouble” stenciledinpurplelettersacrossthebacksideofhertightsweatpants. You know that’s right. Y o u h av e b e e n faw n i n g over Gina for more than a year. Trailing her around campus, vying for her attentions in the cafeteria, cramming with her for exams in the library study carrels. You have been doting on her every whim. Or so you thought. YourememberthefirsttimeyoulaideyesonGina.Youwereatadormitory mixer. It was movie night. Joe Versus the Volcano. You like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, but you thought the movie was pretty stupid. Not very realistic either. It was about some guy with a brain cloud. A brain cloud. You wonder if that kind of condition is covered by medical insurance. Probably not, you think. Probably doesn’t even exist. You fondly recall the after-movie snack. The giant Subway sandwich . Your favorite party food. Six feet of turkey and provolone. And all the fixin’s. Yummy. And then you see her. Gina Watson. Quelle surprise! And on movie night, no less. You sit behind Gina in Madame Wilson’s French class. Blonde and cherubic in a staid blue dress with a conservative lace top. Beautiful and appealing. But not too beautiful, not too appealing. You are safe here, you think to yourself. Safe as milk. This girl will never like you. Can’t possibly like you. Will never reciprocate. It simply isn’t going to happen. You are relieved. You turn your attention back to the giant Subway sandwich. You are safe. Safe as milk and cookies. 24 J o h n D o e N o . 2 a n d t h e D r e a m l a n d M o t e l You go back to gorging yourself on a wedge of cold-cut nirvana. But then you are suddenly and unexpectedly interrupted—still chewing upon a hefty mouthful of sandwich—by Gina’s confident, inquisitive voice. “You’re in French 102, right?” she asks. How forward. How very forward—you think to yourself—but intriguing. You are impressed with her chutzpah. You wish that you had some chutzpah of your own. With chunks of sandwich ballooning in your cheeks, you nod your head affirmatively. Yes. French 102. Indeed. You hastily swallow your exquisite bite of turkey and provolone. Comment allez-vous? you ask, trying to be clever. Trying to use the language of your shared semi-bilingualism. Oh, my God, you think. Have you already blown it? Should you have used the tu form instead? After all, you have been sitting behind her all year long. Surely that merits some kind of familiarity. Right? You urge yourself to feel safe. To feel at ease. Safe. Safety. Milk and cookies. Without transition, Gina breaks into a detailed analysis of her academic schedule. There’s your French class, of course, with its conjugations and its participles. No problem there, she tells you. She’s acing French. Ditto...