Don't Look Back

Chapter 4 - Ian

March 2010
Boston, MA, USA

Ours is a forbidden love.

Traditional Catholicism isn't a cruel faith, I suppose. It's one that wants to protect its people from unnecessary pain and anguish. Perhaps the Church is right. Sylvia and I should never have kissed. Never should have dated.

Not even once.

Much less for three years.

We certainly shouldn't have shared such an extreme level of intimacy. Let's just say we're both living in grave mortal sin, according to her faith at least, yet we're unable to confess because we feel no guilt. No shame. And no desire to abstain.

At least I've felt no guilt.

Now I'm not so sure about Sylvia. Part of me wonders if this is the real reason why she's pulling away. Maybe it has nothing to do with her upcoming fellowship in Germany at all.

Does she think I'm a bad influence on her soul?

In two months, we'll both graduate and go our separate ways. She's flying to Europe while I stay here, and soon we'll have to say goodbye.

Possibly forever.

Screw that crap! I can't let her go without a fight!

There is no one but Sylvia in my heart. And there never will be. This I know as surely as I know my own name. She's my muse. My little raven.

I need to prove my true honor, loyalty, and commitment to her. Even if she says no. Even if she casts me aside. They say you should never ask a woman to marry you unless you're sure she'll say yes. That's wise.

But fuck wisdom!

Because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try.

Some people might argue twenty-three is too early to settle down, but I disagree. With several job offers under my belt and only weeks until graduation, I'd like to embark on the next phase of our lives together. Even if we have to spend the first nine months apart.

What's a few months in the scheme of things?

Because Sylvia loves creativity more than materialism, I have decided to propose to her in the Museum of Fine Art in Boston. I'm freaking shaking while I pay for our tickets. Nervous as we pass dozens of paintings.

Until we finally reach the Impressionists.

Our favorite art movement.

Once we reach the famous Renoir painting, Dance at Bougival, I regard it with the same fascination as always. Sylvia stands beside me, her hand in mine. This art is pure romance. Bursting at the seams with sensual emotion as a couple dances in the countryside.

The perfect way for me to tell her how I feel. By now I know her well enough to know she'll understand.

Before this glorious work of art, I take both of her hands in mine. And I get down on one knee.

"I couldn't be more certain that you are the true love of my life," I say with my full conviction. "After graduation, I would like us to stand side by side as true equals and start a life together."

Sylvia blanches. But I can't stop now. Spring break is my last chance before we start studying for finals. Graduate. And then say goodbye.

Instead of a ring, I reach into my backpack and take out a clothbound sketchbook with a Rubik's cube embossed on the cover. It's our story. Drawn in pictures from beginning to end.

Hopefully not the end, but I can't guarantee it.

I've put my heart and soul into this work. Not to mention dozens of hours. Over the past three years, anytime we weren't together and I wasn't working I'd draw in secret so it would remain a surprise on this special day.