Adjacent to Weaving was the Fibers Classroom. I entered, started shoving tables and chairs around like a primitive. No, once the primitive gets his classroom set up, he walks right up, talks to the girl without a second thought.
The classroom set up, I gave myself a last shot in the arm. "No, class," I said, grabbing the lectern, "don't you go giving yourself no second thoughts."
I paused that my class of empty chairs might think for themselves.
"Why?" I asked. "Because second thoughts lead to third thoughts, and before you know it, your stone age gray matter is engaged in color commentary fit for a psychiatrist's couch, and instead of walking up to said girl--like cool boys have been walking up to said girls for eons, you'll lay back, pull out your pad and pen, etch in stone why it's best to go through life with your sex substitute--your pad and pen."
At the Fibers Classroom door, I paused, visualized how I'd lean on her loom, ask my loom question like the coolest cat in the . . . Wait; loom question? Damn, I need loom question. Let's see; yarn, wool, sheep . . .
I once overheard a Fiber major say, "Weaving's a piece of cake; it's the warping that's the real bear." There's my key; warp. Which brought to mind weft. "Say," I could say, "I know warping's a real bear, but that wefting; what kind of animal is that?"
That's the ticket; keep things light. No, if there's one thing girls like, it's the guy who keeps things light. I opened the door.
I closed the door. I had recalled where light had gotten me that first day in the orchard. No, that bad-dog glare she'd given me had all the lightness of concrete. Clearly, this orchard woman was the type who liked her guys dark. Ya, film noir guys with dusky bedrooms for eyes. I screwed in my bedroom eye, worked some dusk into my pick-up line: "That warping, looks like a real bear. Of course, I'm the type of guy who'd shoot himself in the head long before I ever got to any wefting."
Way to go, Anton; let's scare the girl.
Let's see, light, dark; what's half way between?
Gray. That's the ticket. "Now, I know you got your warp and you got your weft, but I wouldn't know which was what from looking at 'em."
No, boys, when it comes to winning girls over on the whole, gray's your best bet.
Ready, finally, to do a little leaning on a loom, I opened the Fibers classroom door, only to close it again. Something had come to me--my sure-fire formula for augmenting balls. I unscrewed the cap of my water bottle, imagined the water wine, chugged it like a religion. Oh, how bravely I walked out of that Fibers Classroom. No, you know a guy's got augmented balls when he's got the gunslinger legs of St. Emilion.
But, damn, the orchard woman wasn't fiddling with her loom, wasn't in Weaving at all. Isn't that how it goes, though; a guy preempts the no little trouble a woman can cause a guy, and what does he get? No woman to trouble him a little.
Oh, well, might as well give my gray line a dry run.
I knew the area in Weaving where the orchard woman had been fiddling, but I could only narrow her loom down to one of two. Given how forceful--mean, even--the orchard woman was that first day in the orchard, I decided to lean on the loom with the more masculine feel.
"No, class," I said, manhandling the loom like a lectern, "you really ought to freshen up before you do any leaning on a loom."
Having freshened up, I was at the drinking fountain in The Center filling my water bottle. This took forever--the water pressure's low. To pass the time I panned the students sitting around, laughing in the student lounge. Movement to my left caught my eye. Cry me a Creed! There she was, the woman of the orchard, not five yards from me, purchasing a cookie.
Oh, how I coveted that cookie flying for her opening mouth. Perhaps she had felt my covet, for the cookie stopped mid-flight; her lips pursed, her face snapped my way.
"So," I said, "you're a Fiber Artist, eh?"
Her face relaxed. "Yes," she said, taking a step towards me, taking a bite of her cookie.
"Ya, see, I saw you in that Fibers workshop last weekend, and then minutes ago in Weaving, so I put two-and-two together."
"I see," she said, swallowing.
"So," I said, "how do you like us so far?"
She stiffened.
"No," I said, "I mean, the school . . . this school . . . I mean how do you like your new school . . . so far?"
"Oh," she said, relaxing. "I love the school, but, see, I came here to study Surface Design with Iris, but first I must take foundation classes like tapestry, weaving, which I'm not that interested in."
Again, I was taken by her clean voice, so familiar it was haunting. I was taken even more by the way she stood at ease before me, looking me square in the bedroom eye. But what really took me was the line our eyes shared. How rare it was for two sets of old-soul eyes to be sharing the same sight line down here on the nether earth plane.
"You seem familiar," she said. "Where do I know you from?"
"Oh," I said, blinking, "I talked with you in the orchard the other day. Remember; trying to get you to eat bugs."
She rolled her eyes. "I mean before that. It seems we've met before somewhere. Have you ever lived in Alaska?"
"No, can't say as I have." Odd, I knew I'd heard her voice before, and here she thought we had met before as well.
Sensing she was about to leave, I hurried up, laid my gray line on her.
There's a look a girl gives a puppy when it's piddled the floor. After giving me that look, the Fiber artist took me to school on warp and weft.
A good way to captivate a girl is through vivid color commentary. "You know," I said, throwing my head back in the direction of Fibers, "just so happens, I happened by that weaving on that loom of yours. And I'm glad I did, because I totally got off on it."
She stiffened.
"No, I mean, the blue--totally got off on the blue. Ya, because, see, I totally got a thing for blue myself."
Of course, sometimes a guy's pick of color kicks him in the ass. Turned out, I'd leaned on the wrong loom--there was no blue in her weaving. Blushing, I drummed up--in my mind's eye--the loom with the more feminine feel.
The Fiber artist didn't know about that, but she did seem to think I needed further schooling on warp and weft.
Though bored to tears, I did think it sweet how, after every weaving lesson, the schoolgirl bit off and chewed a little more of her chocolate chip cookie. I had had no little sweet tooth in my youth as well. Of course, in my youth, I did more wolfing than chewing.
Inspired by the wolf of my youth, I thought I'd do a little flirting. "Watch out," I said, "there's a bug on your cookie!"
The orchard woman jumped, flipped her cookie this way and that.
I matured into a teenager. "Just kidding," I said.
"I don't like to be kidded."
This called for adult speak. "Sorry, just trying to keep things light."
"I prefer heavy," she said.
Time to talk like an old soul. "I can do heavy," I said. I tried to think of something heavy. But all I could think of was concrete.
I was searching for another heavy, when I caught her eyes staring at my water bottle. It had been overflowing since I'd first gone gray on her ass.
"Well," I said, righting the bottle, screwing on the cap, "welcome to ACCW. Hope it's a good experience for you. By the way, I'm Anton. Anton Celadon. I'm the groundskeeper here."
"I'm Coral Score."
And without shaking hands, we went our separate ways.
Coral Score. What a singular name. Too bad she didn't like to be kidded. Hell, over the years, I'd raised my kidding into Fine Craft. And heavy? What kind of heavy was she referring to? Hell, I could get heavy as an anchor where literature or spirituality were concerned. But if it's art or politics--no, I was all to sea where art and politics were concerned.
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