I don’t understand men.  I think that’s the problem.  Maybe I should tell you about my friend Amanda Odalon, to illustrate my perplexity.  Her husband, apparantly, was married before and had two daughters.  Amanda doesn’t know what happened to them, or even if they’re still alive.  Her husband never talks about them, so we can assume their all dead, car accident, something like that (though I’m betting it’s plain old fashioned axe murder, and you’ll see why in a second).  Well, Amanda had her girls before she ever met the guy – twin girls, same story.  Her husband’s story sounded kind of sad at first because I imagined this poor guy lost his daughters and wanted to get back what he lost – only slightly weird, but kind of romantic.  But then, get this, he started encouraging her to get these plastic surgeries.  Amanda’s a sweet girl, but kind of a push over, the kind who cares more about her husband than anything.  I know what you’re thinking, how did opposites like me and Amanda become friends?  Like I said, she’s sweet, good listener.  Anyway, she said she found in a locked drawer pictures of the ex-wife.  Her name was Amanda too.  And the weird bastard was trying to sculpt the new Amanda to look like the old Amanda.  So my point is, even the ones willing to commit to marriage and a family are raving lunatics deep down.

That brings me back around to Abraham.  I’m not saying he’s a lunatic or that he’s given any signs of it.  I’m just saying, I’d be an idiot to ignore the fact that, at the end of the day, he is a man and, consequently, probably off his rocker.  I say this because he just happened to show up at the museum where I work one day.  He claimed he was taking a tour.  He claimed he was not even there to see me.  Sure, I’m usually in the back offices and don’t even go out front most of the time.  Sure, it’s been nearly two weeks since we had our “date,” and stalkers usually take a shorter amount of time.  But there he was, and I couldn’t have been more shocked.  He was looking at a painting called “The Eternal Door” by Teniel Cledwyn.

“Are you stalking me?” I said.

“Sophie?” he said.  “You taking a tour?”

“No,” I said.  “I work here.”

“I didn’t realize that.  Can you explain this painting for me.”  It was a mostly abstract black and gray done in thick strokes over ripped up barely-visible newspaper.  In the center was a semicircle of white that appeared to be imitating the sun’s corona.

“I work with the historical artifacts,” I said.  “Not the art.”

“Oh, I see,” he said.  “Actually, that was a trick question.  Teniel said the doorway was to a place of non-duality where explanation becomes irrelevant.  Of course that is an explanation, but you know what Keats says about negative capability and all that.” 

“I appreciate you trying to impress me, but…” 

“I was actually almost done with the tour.  Do you have a lunch hour soon?  We could go across the street to Pakpao’s, the Thai place, and grab a quick bite.” 

“I’m married.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything other than eat.”

“I don’t think so,” I finally said.  “I have a lot of work to do.  You have a good time though.”  And I left.

I expected him to come stalking me the next day.  I went out to the floor at every opportunity I could.  The day after that, I did the same thing, and the day after that.  Then I gave up.  I know what you’re thinking, his trick actually worked, he did actually get me to start thinking about him and wanting him to show up.  You can call me a paranoid and a cynic and a defeatist all you want.  But if I fall for this guy and he turns out to be a nutjob like the rest of the male half of the population – if he makes me have plastic surgery to look like a dead wife or if he turns out to be a psychotic superhero in disguise or if he goes the simple route and just chops me up into bits he keeps in his refrigerator – I’m going to blame you, diary, for trying to convince me in the first place.