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If ever the scene had been set, this was it.A week in Paris. He is strikingly handsome with his classic Californian good looks and a smile that could melt butter, and I am probably at my physical peak, with wavy brown hair, bright blue eyes, and curves that could stop traffic.
Neither of us knew what to expect. After meeting on a humanitarian aid trip in Central America, there was clearly a connection between us that we had neither time nor opportunity to explore. The fact that he moved to Europe the day after our return left us to continue building our relationship online through email and chat.
So as I flew across the Atlantic to visit him during my vacation, the possibilities ran wildly through my head. Friends at home had inundated me with notions that Paris is the city of love, and we would be fools not to be swept away. Pessimism reared its head, too, taunting that I didn't really know this man, and for all I knew he was actually a monstrous human being I would be stranded with for a week.
However, from the time I stepped off of the metro and jumped into his arms until the moment we tearfully said goodbyes at the same station, all speculation was forgotten and the natural flow of "us" prevailed.
There were no impassioned kisses or nights of passion. But there were hours of conversation under the glow of the Eiffel Tower. Barrels of laughter over inside jokes that will never makes sense to anyone but us. Tears over the deepest secrets and pains of our hearts. Comfortable silences that can only happen in the peace of trust. Speculation over the future, our dreams and fears. Confession of our fears and failures. And reassurances that we see each other beyond the facade and to the truth.
And as I returned to anxious friends waiting to hear stories of scandalous Parisian rendezvous, there seemed to be some hint of disappointment. No excitement, no scandal, no drama. As though I had missed out on something.
Although our relationship did not progress or digress as I imagined or feared, I couldn't have written a more perfect story. No, I didn't walk away with a lover, but I now have a friend who is dear to my heart. Who I shared an amazing week with, who holds many of my precious memories, and who knows me and loves me. How could I hope for more?
One moment that resonates with me is of my last night in Paris.
Exhausted from a full week and dreading my departure the next morning, we collapsed onto the bed and looked at each other. His bright blue eyes softly pierced mine with a reassuring knowledge that he knew me, and I knew him, and this was good. As we lay there, I knew that this was right, and what was meant to grow between us had.
"Just friends" is not a disappointment. Sometimes it's exactly what you need.
[ 本帖最后由 Namiko-zs 于 2012-10-23 14:04 编辑 ]
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I'm in the basket-ball team and you ought to see the bruise on my left shoulder. It's blue and mahogany with little streaks of orange. Julia Pendleton tried for the team, but she didn't get in. Hooray! You see what a mean disposition I have.
College gets nicer and nicer. I like the girls and the teachers and the classes and the campus and the things to eat. We have ice-cream twice a week and we never have corn-meal mush. You only wanted to hear from me once a month, didn't you? And I've been peppering you with letters every few days! But I've been so excited about all these new adventures that I MUST talk to somebody; and you're the only one I know. Please excuse my exuberance; I'll settle pretty soon. If my letters bore you, you can always toss them into the wastebasket. I promise not to write another till the middle of November.
Yours most loquaciously,
Judy Abbott
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Daddy Long-Legs is a 1912 epistolary novel by the American writer Jean Webster. It follows the protagonist, a young girl named Jerusha "Judy" Abbott, through her college years. She writes the letters to her benefactor, a rich man whom she has never seen.
Jerusha Abbott was brought up at the John Grier Home, an old-fashioned orphanage. The children were wholly dependent on charity and had to wear other people's cast-off clothes. Jerusha's unusual first name was selected by the matron off a gravestone (she hates it and uses "Judy" instead), while her surname was selected out of the phone book. At the age of 18, she has finished her education and is at loose ends, still working in the dormitories at the institution where she was brought up.
One day, after the asylum's trustees have made their monthly visit, Judy is informed by the asylum's dour matron that one of the trustees has offered to pay her way through college. He has spoken to her former teachers and thinks she has potential to become an excellent writer. He will pay her tuition and also give her a generous monthly allowance. Judy must write him a monthly letter, because he believes that letter-writing is important to the development of a writer. However, she will never know his identity; she must address the letters to Mr. John Smith, and he will never reply.
Jerusha catches a glimpse of the shadow of her benefactor from the back, and knows he is a tall long-legged man. Because of this, she jokingly calls him Daddy-Long-Legs. She attends a "girls' college," but the name and location are never identified. Men from Princeton University are frequently mentioned as dates, so it might be assumed that her college is one of the Seven Sisters. It was certainly on the East Coast. She illustrates her letters with childlike line drawings, also created by Jean Webster. At the end of the book, the identity of 'Daddy-Long-Legs' is revealed.
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