Contest (chapter 2; part 1)

I run to try to catch up with Camille who is walking briskly, stamping her feet on the New York sidewalk up ahead. “Hey, Camille, wait up!” I press her, trying to make her slow down. Nothing is faster than an angry woman.
“What do you want Josh?” she replies in a brusque voice without giving me a chance to answer. “Maybe you’d like to tell me that it is also my fault that that man over there is homeless, or that that cab crashed the Nissan, or th-”
“Hey, hey, just stop okay?” I tell her, feeling anger rise up within me. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry for taking us to the wrong museum and for blaming you.” I finish, not without adding which I did not do, not any of those things.
“Whatever, let’s just get going fast or we’ll be really late,” she says as she turns around sharply and walks off. I follow her, not having any other option. We are now headed to the Met where we have to find our next clue, as opposed to the Guggenheim museum where we were headed twenty minutes ago until I pointed out that the clue was pointing towards the Met, not the Guggenheim. I had shared my find, which was automatically translated by Camille’s brain into making it sound like I had blamed her, and she had gone into hysterics, shouting the Guggenheim had been my idea in the first place. Not true, I had told her with a defensive tone creeping into my voice. So yeah, maybe it was immature to defend myself. I could have let it roll by, but it is just not possible for me to do so. I am a twenty year old guy studying political sciences, and captain of the football team at Quincy University, Illinois. What can I say, competition is in my blood. I had finally convinced her that the Picasso with a female at a table was not the Woman Ironing at the Guggenheim, but the Girl Reading at a Table in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We then began walking, and here we are now, one block away from the crowded but nonetheless world known Met steps. “So we go in and find the Picasso, and then we have to go where?” Camille asks me with a kinder voice. Yes! I think she was forgiving me. Not like it really made much of a difference as we were going to be switching partners today, but it never hurts to have a tall, slim, dark hair, French woman on your side. She is just so unbelievingly beautiful. She has the finest face, but it shows her strong personality. Her hair is shoulder length, and always perfectly combed, not even one stray hair. Her legs are long and slender, and her smile is as white as the clouds. She is a decade older than me, and in a five year long relationship with a guy, but boys will be boys, and boys like to dream. She waves her hand in front of my face, and I am swooshed back to reality.