Cheek and adjust the following for readability and flow, the cheek and adjust for tense agreement, please keep the formatting of the original:”I was confident in the knowledge I had and wouldn't have accepted that things weren't so easily solved. So I was pleased with myself. My classmates and I delighted in highly dynamic social lives. We would paint, play cards, and have diversions. Go dancing, and so on...
There were a few boys in our class. The ones we knew would always stay in the same group and wouldn't mix with us socially. We would do arts and crafts and make little paintings and sculptures. The only problem was that there was no watercolour paint. So there would be no outside painting, but this was the least of our worries. I had received a small art set as a gift from my grandparents, but I didn't have any sense of artistic inclination.
As I recall that moment, I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and the gentle breeze that carried the scent of blooming flowers. 
He stood before me, tall and confident, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through me. 
His voice was deep and soothing, like a melody that I couldn't get enough of. As we talked, I couldn't help but notice the way his hands moved gracefully as he spoke, emphasizing his words with subtle gestures. 
The way he leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret, made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered to him at that moment. 
When he gave me the books, I remember the feel of the smooth covers under my fingertips, the sound of the pages rustling as I turned them, and the smell of the ink and paper. 
As I read, I was transported to different worlds and times, each one more fascinating than the last. 
The words on the page seemed to come alive, and I could almost hear the voices of the philosophers and thinkers he had introduced me to. 
He brought books on Surrealism, Protopopov, Bukharin, Tzvetan Todorov, Agamemnon, Sartre, Derrida, Kierkegaard, Poincare, Nietzsche, and Marx. Looking back, I realize that it wasn’t just his knowledge that made him so amazing, but the way he shared it with me. 
He made me feel like I was capable of understanding these complex ideas, and that I had something valuable to contribute to the conversation. It was a feeling that stayed with me long after our conversation ended, and one that I will always cherish.
‘To me, he was an inspirational figure, someone of action, someone of spirit, and someone I wanted to emulate. –She breathed shallowly- Some of the most forceful speeches I’d ever heard came from his mouth. He was magnificent. That’s how I remember him.
A friend of mine, a French woman, remembers having a conversation with him. While, the three of us sat in a café on a trip through Paris. She recollects him, asking,
'Why are all great men-people like the Marquis de Sade? Represented as monstrous to be historically interesting?'
(She herself is an artist.)
'He’d said categorically that there are no monsters or individuals who have made a botch. What I recall from that moment speaks to a significant sense of justice. It wasn't a vision. It wasn’t progressive, but it had all the makings of humanism. For a minute, he gave me trust. There were more than those they had educated me about.' ‘He was approximately my father's age, tall but slightly shorter than him, six feet seven.'
I looked into his eyes and thought: There was something there. But could never figure out what that was.
‘He’s just like my father and thinks I’m beautiful.’
‘In what sense?" Asked Jon
‘In the sense that there was an inner strength. Silences and quiet times mean as much as words. When words were necessary, none between us were-wasted, and I liked that about him.’
‘Go on,’ Jon said.
"He said nothing, but the silence was palpable. I could feel my heart racing as I searched for a response, but my mind was blank. 
The room felt suffocatingly quiet, and I could hear the sound of my own breathing. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the coolness of the floor through the soles of my shoes. My cheeks were burning, and I couldn't help but look down at my feet, hoping to disappear into the ground. His gentle touch on my shoulder brought me back to the present moment. He could sense my embarrassment and self-consciousness, and he knew just what to do. With his guidance, I learned how to embrace my true self and let go of my insecurities."
 'Naturally, given your experience.
‘Thank you,’ Cristina replied.
Jon merely smiled.
While Jon and Cristina were talking. Jon’s father, Jake, sat on the hall floor, out of sight, listening to their conversation in shock.
‘We went out to lunch, then we went dancing, and I was having a wonderful time.’
‘When we went to our first club, we had a great time.' We were so young, danced and laughed. Were a little out of place, but we were having so much fun. I was so content, I didn’t care.'
Then he said we could go home together. But I couldn’t think of what to say. Cristina said.
Jon looked at her and was about to ask about his father, Jake, and what he made of it all during this time.
Before Jon could ask, Jake walked into the kitchen. ‘I was wondering where you two were,’ he said.
Jake looked at Cristina, then at Jon.
'What's going on?' Jake asked. With a serious look on his face.
‘Mom was telling me about Michael,’ Jon said. Jake had hoped never to hear that name again. Cristina had broken a promise made long ago not to bring his name up again.
‘Your mother was talking about Michael,’ Jake said. Cristina's face dropped. 'I was married to an older man, and then I met your father; when I married him,'
'I betrayed the man I was married to.' Jake couldn’t believe what Cristina had said.
‘What happened to Michael?’ Jake asked.
‘He was my redeemer.’
'Cristina, I don’t believe you.' Jake said.
‘When I was young, I’d done many things wrong, things I regret doing now, but they were long ago and no longer matter. Things that surfaced when I met him, caused me immense pain. With love, patience, and guidance, he supported me to soothe the pain I had inside.’
‘I don't understand.' Is Michael your husband?'
Cristina nodded.
‘My father was so desolate.’
‘I was seeing Michael.’
‘You know what I mean.' Cristina said. Jake had never seen Cristina cry; he was trying to understand.
‘Cristina, look at me,’ Jake said. Cristina looked the other way as Jake walked around and lifted her head.
'Was Michael your husband?' Jake said.
‘Yes’ Cristina said.
'When we were married, I was married to Michael. I loved him. I couldn't stop thinking about him,' Jake railed in shock; his entire world (or so it seemed) built on a lie.
Jake went from the kitchen; he slid down the hall wall, ended up on the floor, and sobbed violently.