The Map That Leads to You

by J.P. Monninger

You hardly recognize her; she had changed over these last four years, grown deeper, perhaps wiser, a woman in place of a girl. In the same instant, it is unbearable to look at her, because you see her vulnerability, her shortcomings, her struggles.

His hair was black and curly, but not ’Fro-ish, just Dead Poet-y.

You could have put it in the aisle, Wolverine boy.

I had to admire his skill. I also had to admire his hindquarters, and the V of his back,

Victor, I saw, followed her down the aisle toward Lord knows what. Poland was about to be conquered.

“A book is a companion, though. You can read it in a special place, like on a train to Amsterdam, then you carry it home and you chuck it on a shelf, and then years later you remember that feeling you had on the train when you were young. It’s like a little island in time. If you love the book, you can give it to someone else. And you can discover it over and over, and it’s like seeing an old friend.

He had a killer smile, a conspiratorial smile, a smile that said mischief wasn’t far off, come along, we’re going to have a better time than you’re having alone.

I thought women didn’t like Hemingway anymore.” “I like the sadness.”

How smart? Hmm? That remains to be seen. But you’re reading Hemingway in Europe, so that’s either very impressive or terribly clichéd.”

The thing is, I like you. I liked you right off. If I had tail feathers, I would spread them out and dance around you to demonstrate my interest. But how am I doing so far? Is it working at all? Feel any pitter-pat in your heart?”

You’re reading Hemingway, so you have artistic feelings, but you don’t trust them because, well, because they aren’t practical.

The thing is, you’re not about the sex that might come along with that package, although you don’t mind it. You’re about getting the girls to fall for you, to marvel at your wonderfulness, because that’s your particular pathology.

“Did anyone ever mention that you look like a bad version of Hugh Jackman?”

“I’m trying to imagine what kind of person needs a pretentious calendar to remind her that she’s doing okay.”

“Do you really think if you get every gold star the teacher hands out there is a huge refrigerator in the sky where you get to hang your special papers?

“I got you a coffee,” I said. “It was the least I could do given your pitiful life.”

“I could use some air, miserable, trust-fund, lame-ass Vermont boy that I am.” I nodded. “You are,” I agreed. “Sad but true.”

the slacker cool boy lurking around in his own myth.”

“That’s not a flaw. That’s a psychosis. You need help. You need extensive psychological assistance.”

“And when a bride comes down the aisle,” I continued, “I always want her to trip. My mother won’t let me sit on the aisle if I’m at a wedding for fear I’ll stick my foot out.”

The world always seems right on the edge of becoming a bad frat party.”

“What weapon attracts you?” “Hedge clippers.” “Hedge clippers, huh? Why’s that?” “I just think they’re underappreciated.”

So you were the common-man guy, farmer boy, with a deep soul. Did you come in a kit? Or were you already assembled?”

“Did you sex him to death?”

We’ve both been wanting to kiss, so we shouldn’t miss it.”

some wannabe playboy will come dancing toward you with his groin sticking out, his teeth tucked over his lower lip, his eyes giving you the you’re-ten-minutes-away-from-having-my-baby look.

If I had gone shopping for a guy who fit me, and all the men from my history had been hanging on a dress rack in a well-lit shop, I would have picked Jack every single time.

You couldn’t escape your personality when it came to dancing,

“That sounds desperate.” “It is desperate, but so what? You call for pizza or Chinese food when you want it, don’t you?”

Jack needed it as a second weapon, one that he could use to whack their penises if they came too close.

Best or worst line ever written?

“I’d rate our kiss on the platform about a seven. How about you?” Jack asked, leaning close.

Obviously, tartar sauce is Kryptonite to anyone from Atlantis.”

I had decided he was long and gangly, like an overgrown asparagus plant, and I didn’t like him.

Walter called it the Clark Kent fantasy. You’re a journalist, but you’re also Superman. Once a news junkie, always a news junkie. You can’t help it.”

“What’s the opposite of a romantic? I’ve always wondered.” “An accountant, I guess. A person who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

you just Plato my ass at four o’clock in the morning?”

“Let’s keep our names to ourselves,” I said. “That will make it harder for you to find me after you’ve fallen hopelessly in love with me. It will turn it into a quest.” “How do you know I’m not already hopelessly in love with you?” “Too soon. It usually takes men a day and a half for them to pledge their lives to my service.”

thought it would be bigger,” I said, leaning close to him to see the book. “A woman should never say that to a man.”

Have you ever heard someone say that books are places we visit and that when we run into people who have read the books we have read, it’s the same as if we had traveled to the same locations? We know something about them because they have lived in the same worlds we have lived. We know what they live for.”

It’s not every day the Virgin Mary walks into a bar.” “Sounds like the start of a bad joke.” “I worry that God might be lonely.”

It was not Hemingway’s Paris, but it was the same thing, the same pursuit of the simple and sublime, and it hurt my heart a little to let it inside me.

“Weltschmerz,” I said, feeling the heaviness of the word as it passed my lips. “German for world weariness and pain. It’s the idea that physical reality can never meet the demands of the mind.

“We’re going to fight to the death. When you’re feeling existential dread, you need to push the limits. You need to confront death.”

“Of course it’s crazy. Everything is crazy. The whole world is crazy. Didn’t you know that, Heather? Didn’t you know everyone is an imposter and there are no real adults in the next room?”

“Very Freudian, this whole fencing thing,” I said. “Very penis-centered.” “Exactly.”

“It takes time.” “Knitting takes time. I want blood.”

and I had never felt more alive and sexed up in my life.

Everyone is climbing, and I’m not sure where people are climbing to be or to get to.

Sometimes I think ideas are just things to play with.

Some of it’s good, some of it’s not so good. But it’s all life.”