She almost walked right by him, then he caught her eye as she crossed the room.  As she noticed him, he winked and she turned her head, letting him know she was not so easily swayed.  She passed him again and noticed his gaze was steady.  She sensed that he was a little damaged; at this age, who wasn’t?

She walked out the door with her friends, across the street and to the car.  With her hand on the handle, unable to meet their eyes, she said, “I have to go back.  I’m sorry.  I’ll be fast.”  She skipped up the steps, her breath coming quicker.  Her world was so jumbled already, she did not know how she would fit him in it.  What if he were gone?

Her nerves fluttered when she could not find him in the room where she’d seen him last.  Then she turned and he was there.  She could tell there might have been someone else, even in the brief time she had been gone, but she didn’t care.  They left together without exchanging a word.

As he sat beside her in the car, her hand resting against his leg, she imagined that her friends might be envious that he was with her.  She ran her finger across his curls. She was already thinking about how she could change him.

I picked up this Centaur sculpture at Kansas City dealer, Scott Lindsay’s, this weekend.  He is not broken in the middle, as I originally thought, but in fact, swivels, making me love him even more.  I would rather see him on a honed black marble base; if it weren’t for the wear on the paint, which I adore, he might be a chalky white already.