The Story of a Girl (Potential for Title to be Changed to More Creative Name)

Part I

 

This is a not really fictional piece of my crush on a particular girl who coincidentally and inconveniently has a boyfriend. FYI, I am, for the most part, the he/him/his (rarely does it actually work to conceal one's identity through fiction) but I am unsure who the narrator is.

Why is it that the chapter in The Brothers Karamazov, "The Grand Inquisitor", a chapter addressing the innate evil of human kind, is robbed of its context, the umbilical cord severed from its origins and published by itself while the chapter on Father Zosima, the benevolent monk that believes in the innate goodness of humans is, if it hasn't already been ripped from its binding, torn from the manuscript only to be heaved into the garbage –not even recycled. My point is that we choose evil over good –that we secretly enjoy watching people fail. Take a deep breath. My story, although its denouement is not yet known, is one that will most likely end in your enjoyment; my defeat. Does this makes me a martyr?

If the girl could remember that she had told him last Saturday that she would be working at Washington Ave Bistro, that she would have to work at seven O'clock that night - two hours after she finished her other job at the gallery –maybe she would've found it creepy that one week later he, donning his finest finery, would be sitting down with his father and friend to dine at this very same place.

She would not be his waitress but the smile she gave him as she looked up from the table she was bussing, would suggest otherwise. Isn't it possible that she told him where she worked because she wanted him to visit? Yet, could it not also be plausible that she would’ve been warier but was skeptical that such information would be assimilated and employed at a later time. But alas, the astute bird gets the worm; it’s that simple.

That’s why he visited the gallery; she was working at a bar, the Franklin - sometimes referred to as the Frankie, and she had suggested that he come visit between ten and three thirty. It was the first time he had seen her and like most girls who worked at the Frankie –and coincidentally, at most of the galleries –she was gorgeous. A friend of his, who knew her from playing in a soccer league, stood up from his stool and placed his hands on her hips and smiled longingly into her eyes. Perhaps he looked too long because one by one she removed each of his fingers. This little piggy went...The friend sat back down. Unshaken, still smiling. The boy, who will also be referred to as the astute bird, decided to take a different approach.