Random Exercise In Memory

I should be saving these for a less-than-inspired day, but damn if I don't just feel like writin' and reminiscin'.

Ann-with-an-e, meet your Gilbert Blythe. Minus the whole romance and marriage aspect. Oh well.

I rested my elbows on the table and stared across its width to meet a pair of bright blue eyes. They were sparkling at me, laughing with me. They liked that I was firing it right back at their owner.

He was leaning back in an overstuffed purple leather armchair, eyebrows slightly raised as I countered the argument he'd just made. This routine had grown comfortably well-established - once we got going, we tended to dominate a discussion.

The facilitator of our group sat between us, at the head of the table. His head followed the volley of quips and comments with tennis-match precision. He was smiling at the demonstration. I wondered what he thought of my transformation. The shy, timid girl who learned in this building a year before had disappeared.

Experience and familiarity played a part in my shift from observer to participant, I was sure. But the group dynamic was the biggest change - and much of this I attributed to the sandy-haired fellow from Tennessee who became my biggest rival and favorite sparring partner the first day we met. I adored trying to prove him wrong, I loathed the constant struggle to keep up with his easy wit and I knew that I'd developed a ridiculous crush on the guy from the first moment.

During a mid-morning break from the discussion-turned-debate, we began to walk through the red velvet-carpeted halls and discuss Jeff Buckley. When we walked out to the fountains, I thought he'd take the opportunity to relax and spend some time on his own. I made my way to a sun-warmed ledge and sat down. The sparkling white marble, blue water and bright sun dazzled me all the more after spending hours in flourescent-lit rooms below ground. I could feel the knots in my back relax and, as I stretched my arms over my head, untie completely.

I grinned as he settled onto the bench next to me and continued the conversation. Buckley turned to Radiohead, which segued somehow to Faulkner and its natural progression to whiskey. The fountain turned into a walk, which turned into trying on horrible sunglasses at a nearby gas station during a soda/cigarette run. That I modeled a huge, Elvis-on-crack pair before someone I'd only recently met demonstrated my surprising level of comfort.

We settled back into the purple seats with smiles and waited a couple of moments before launching back into the debates. I realized the break confirmed something I'd been suspecting.

I still wanted to kick his ass at this competition. But I knew a runner-up place wouldn't be quite as unbearable this time around.

Although I'd still try my damndest to beat the cocky fellow.