Not Exactly Helen of Troy

Andy Warhol's screenprint of Marilyn Monroe gazes at me disquietingly from across the gallery floor. I have no idea why it's this classic epic dame who's caught my eye.

Inevitably, though, it happens, and I have to move across the room from it to escape that dirty, guilty feeling. It's not like I did that to her, locked her in as a piece of antiquity, destined for nothing but an eternal gaze. That's between her and Andy, I tell myself, strangely humored by my internal monologue, and still disturbed by her gaze.

Then I realize it's not Marilyn that has me worked up, but rather the young blonde woman looking at the same picture. She looks poetic. Poetic girls intimidate me.

Why there is a poetic girl in the Warhol Museum is beyond me: most of the Warholians I see around me are disaffected punks and art students, people like me, people that I can't imagine a sculpture like this girl to stand alongside. I can't muster up the courage to talk to her; she's clearly a step above the teeming millions.
I freeze, and check myself out in case she hasn't already.

Damn. Why did I dress like a scumbag this morning?
I hadn't planned on meeting art incarnate today.

Ratty blue jeans, faded black t shirt, and high top sneakers, my sock peeking out of the right toe and about to lose the left sole in a sacrifice to the gods of outworn shoes-- God, she thinks I'm disgusting.
I can't help it, it's who I am. So why do I feel so stupid?
I like my Chucks, they're the best shoes I've ever had. You'd think girls would have some compassion.
I can't stand it in here, I should just go down to the lobby and wait for the bus.
What would she think if she saw me get on the bus? Scumbag!
I sigh miserably, and resign myself to the stairs to the next floor down.

I gape at wallpaper panels of giant pink cows, their garish ridiculous colors both drawing my eyes and making me ill. I walk around idly, distracting myself and analyzing her.

What color would be her favorite, of all the colors in the gallery or the sky or the city?
she probably hates dark blue, I groan, running a hand through my freshly indigo-dyed hair.
What's her name, what kind of a name could fit a girl, as well as her classy grey skirt does, with her strange and innocent gaze?
I mull the beautiful names I've heard in the shallow web of history:
Helen? too obsolete;
Elizabeth? too ornate;
Guinevere? too clumsy;
Jennifer? too blasé;
Kellie? too Baywatch.

I look around the gallery floor.
She's found me again. Well, not specifically, I don't think she'd notice that I'm here again, but it's only a matter of time.
I duck into the Cloud Factory installation piece, pushing a silver foil balloon out of my way. The air power keeping them aloft is as entrancing as any girl. I push another air pillow around, and then another.
I see my smile distorted in the reflective surface of the foil, but I don't see who's standing behind me. Someone else pushes against the same balloon, sending it aloft in front of me.

"Hi." Her voice. That voice! It's not beautiful, but it feels like mine. "This is really fun, you know?"

"You from around here?" I ask, too shy for originality.

"I have family around here. I just do this to relax when I'm down visiting."

"Yeah, this is the best place for it," I agree, lamely, and push another foil pillow directly to her.

"Totally. There's so much culture in here...not the uppity Renaissance culture, but you know... like our canned up modern life, it's all here."

"Oh, of course, yeah," I'm losing control, I'm babbling, I clam up.

"I love your hair, by the way," she says, smiling. "One of my favorite colors."

"Really?" Should I be surprised or not? I have no choice. "What's your name?"

"Sophia," she replies. Sophia. The perfect name; free of baggage, full of depth.

"What about you?"

"Archibald," I stammer. "Everyone calls me Izzy."

"Archibald?" The look on her face is displeased. I am disgraced in the eyes of the girl who is poetic.

"My grandfather's name. Not my favorite, really."

"It's got a weird ring to it," she smiles.

"So, are you here for long?"

"Actually, I have to catch the bus back to my aunt's house in a few minutes," she checks her watch. "If I'm late they'll all be so mad at me." She turns her head to look up at me. "It was nice meeting you, Izzy. Maybe we'll see each other around?"

"Yeah," I mumble, all resolve crumpled under the strain of whether or not I dare to ask for a number.
"Nice meeting you."

I watch her walk to the stairwell, enchanted. This is it, she's going. Did I blow it?

I have to do something.

In an instant, I find myself outpacing her down the stairs.

"Sophia?" I pant. "which bus are you taking?"

"51C." Sophia pauses and smiles. "Are you going home too?"

"I think so." I stare at my shoes.