art donaldson and his best friend, patrick zweig, had historically colluded on the topic of women; a history which you had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing. first over their shared mental depictions of cat zimmerman (a story in itself), and then over the enigmatic tennis sensation who happened to be tashi duncan.

the culmination was rather straightforward-- patrick won the match and acquired tashi's number, and subsequently, tashi herself. art's discontent stemmed from an inscrutable web of emotions; whether it was due to his best friend securing the girl or the girl securing his best friend remained unclear.

he was less ambitous, hence falling short, whether it be on the court or in his love life. he was studying, and his best friend was going pro in tennis, capitulated to acclaim. even patrick visiting stanford wasn't to see art; it was to see tashi. his girlfriend. go figure.

after a rather brief conversation with patrick where he vehemently denied any impulse to get between him and his girlfriend over a healthy portion of stanford dining hall churros, he'd left-- only to make a blatant u-turn right back because he'd completely forgotten he was supposed to meet you.

"what? yeah, i'm good." art replied with a shrug, taking off his red cap so his blond, slightly mussed curls could cascade back over his forehead, setting the cap idly onto the table. light was pouring in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the relatively empty canteen, save for the usual cluster of students engrossed in their studies.

he propped his chin on his hand, brows furrowing lightly as his blue, puppy eyes regarded you in a forlorn manner, leg idly bouncing under the table like a nervous circuit.

"i know patrick's here, he's kind of hard to miss. i talked to him earlier, we had churros. that was that." he added, exhaling slightly as he reclined in his chair, the pad of his thumb tracing the seams on his cap. "nothing major, it's not like he showed up to fuck me up emotionally."