Head Over Flats - Andrew

I fell in love with Andrew on a Sunday afternoon. A small group of resident students were in an atrium on campus at the University. I was perched on the edge of a sofa, quietly reading and half-listening to the people around me. As an exercise, I was applying the Bakhtinian theory that I was reading to the conversation of my peers around me.

Andrew was nearby, pontificating to an eager young pup on some obscure variant of Jewish asceticism as a precursor of the Christian monastic tradition. Or something like that. I was only half-listening, after all. I made a note in the margin of my book: “…suspect that authoritative discourse is inevitably present in any dialogue regarding religion, despite the fact that it has been proven to be less effective than internally persuasive discourse.” It made sense to me at the time. I was smarter back then. Or at least, I thought I was.

My friend Emily caught my eye, and rolled hers before returning to her book–a novel. The girl hardly ever cracked a textbook.

Outside, a bright wintery double-reflection of sun and snow made the window a painful white square against the institutional grey around us. I was in a safe, dark corner with an excellent vantage of the scene, and a necessary view of the door.

By midway through the semester, our small group had commandeered the fourth floor atrium through the simple expedient of being friendly, and slightly noisier than the library. The new girl had followed Andrew into our cloister after class, where I assume they’d struck up a conversation, which transitioned seamlessly into a monologue once Andrew got going.

I looked at the door, anticipating the entrance of my boyfriend, Trent. He was late, as usual. I heard the name “Trent,” like someone reading my mind across the room. It was Andrew. He was explaining to the new girl who we all were in concise, authoritative statements.

“Trent is an engineer, but he’ll probably drop out this semester if he doesn’t get his shit together.” I couldn’t disagree. “He rigged those speakers up.” Andrew gestured to the shelf of stereo equipment above my head. We were listening to the soundtrack from the movie Gladiator. I feel like we always listened to either film scores, or Korn.

Andrew continued his observations, “His girlfriend doesn’t say much, but whenever she does, it’s brilliant.”

I looked at him. It was meant to be a glance. He was leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, his shoulders faced the girl but his eyes were fixed on mine. I’d never physically felt anyone looking at me before, it was tactile. Our eye contact lasted an unseemly long time and his conversation continued like he was on autopilot. I was taking notes, without thinking. Meeting his eyes was kinetic, unbalancing. I fell.

Trent walked in.

"Truth is not born nor is it to be found inside the head of an individual person, it is born between people collectively searching for truth, in the process of their dialogic interaction." (Mikhail Bakhtin)