Pedro Jose Ortega Espinal

Dasha and I are trying to decide if my life is real, and if it is, then why?

I'm currently engaged in a month-long project with a couple of friends in which we take on picture per day. The photo is supposed to be of whatever strikes us during the day, whatever we find that is hidden and extraordinary.

So today, I was walking around with my camera in-hand after a bronze statue of Margaret Branscomb that I had passed an hour earlier while delivering inter-departmental envelopes. It was pouring, so water was rolling off of her like her entire being was crying. I was stricken. But on my way to go take this photo, a man crossed my path, and walked passed me. He was gorgeous. Here's the weird part, he stopped on his heel and turned back around to ask me a question.

I thought I died, then I came to the very quick realization that I had no idea what he had just said to me. Wha??? His words were lost in a beautiful Latin accent. I awkwardly search for the words I am looking for, fidgeting wildly and just being generally pathetic. Then I remember the words, "I'm sorry, what?" He repeats and I discern that he either wants a picture with me or of me or for me to take a picture of him. He gets his camera out and hands it to me, removing the ambiguity, explaining that he's going back to his country soon, but would like some photos as a momento. So I took some.
End of our story? Goodbye lovely foreigner.

Then he, remembering the camera in my hands asks me if he could take my picture to "repay me for my work". Pahaha. I, again, misunderstand him and so I say sure without knowing quite what I'm agreeing to. He offers to take my camera, which again, clears things up. He takes his pictures of me standing in incredibly awkward poses, and as I'm walking back over to him to grab my camera, takes one more. This one stops him and he notes aloud, "This is the one. You have a beautiful smile."

And that is how Brittany Bailey died.

I suddenly notice that he's not just beautiful and adorable in all foreign ways, but that he's sophisticated and makes me feel even younger and even awkwarder in his presence. Get a hold of yourself, Brittany.

Small talk: I learn he's from the Dominican Republic. He also tells me his travel plans, for what reason I cannot fathom. He's going to Pennsylvania tomorrow, but coming back from the 16th to the 22nd and then returning to the D.R. His Vanderbilt office is in Calhoun. He might apply here for a PhD program.

Then he gives me his card, points out the phone number and leaves.

The most astonishing thing, to me, about this story is how awkward I am for the entire duration of this exchange. I only reason that, with our apparent cultural disconnect, he assumed that girlishness was an eccentricity. Whatever. I can't call him, Dasha said he'll try to seduce me because he's 25ish and gorgeous and foreign. And I'm an American girl.

And that is why Dasha wants to take my life.

The end.