We lock eyes, albeit briefly. Actually, she looks up from her book and notices me looking, rather absent-mindedly staring intently directly at her. I don't know if she was looking at me, or in my general direction, nor do I know if she looked because she wanted to or because she felt compelled to. You know that feeling you get when you feel like you're being watched and you feel almost obligated to search out the center of this "attention-wavering" entity drilling holes into your soul?
I'm rambling again. I always do that. I get nervous a lot. You can spend countless hours rehearsing in front of a mirror, trying to transform yourself into the epitome of cool and collective, but, until you are actually thrown out onto the battlefield, there is simply no way of knowing just what to expect. In the company of no one except my reflection, I reinvent class. I'm the man of a thousand sweet nothings effective in any situation. I'm Don Juan trading notes with Fonzie before mingling with 'Ol Blue Eyes out at the Pump Room at the Drake Hotel out in Chicago. I'm JFK at a Presidential fundraiser filled to the brim with women. Hell, I'm Bill Clinton at a Presidential fundraiser filled to the brim with women. You get the point.
I'm staring again. I catch myself leering in her direction. Thankfully she doesn't notice. Or maybe she did, and I was too busy zoning out to notice. If she did she at least didn't seem uncomfortable with this strange man eyeballing her like she held the meaning of life in her soul. I wonder if anyone else noticed? At least my mouth wasn't open, catching flies. I glance around the room. The various customers scattered around do not seem too concerned with my awkwardness nor my unintentional plan to make things awkward for her. I look back down at my book, the words an incomprehensible smorgasbord of black lines scrolling from left to right, top to bottom. My interest in what I'm reading has dwindled to nil, but it buys me time and a security blanket. Otherwise I'm just sitting there drinking coffee, gawking aimlessly at whatever manages to catch my attention, not matter how brief it is. My ability to resist temptation wanes. This time, I try to be a little more discreet.
She is stunning.
I have seen her here before. She is fixated on her task at hand. The soft glow emanating from her computer screen enhances the angelic purity that seems to radiate from her. Her intensity can easily be mistaken for passion. I believe they go hand in hand. Intensity derives from a strong desire and a stronger heart. Passion, like intensity, cannot be taught nor learnt. It is innate, you should have to find what it is that makes you passionate. Once you find it, you know, you understand, you feel empathy for those who have endured and withstood the ups and downs associated with passion.
I'm rambling again. She looks up at me. We lock eyes again. From 30 feet away I can tell her eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I have ever seen. Emeralds would be jealous of the vibrancy and vivaciousness. They tell a sad story yearning a happy ending. A slight twitch from the corners of her mouth could very well be misconstrued. The instant rush of heat felt in my face meant I took it as a smile. Despite the subtlety, it was the most beautiful smile I had ever witnessed. A smile that could bring empires to their knees.
As cucumber-esque as I boasted being in very select company, the opposite applies in more public scenarios. I panicked. I rearranged the pages in my book and forced my eyes to avert to a word, any random word I could make out on the page.
"Fear."
Even Walt Whitman was mocking me. 'At least I'm not a racist,' I defended myself internally.
I flipped through the pages, giving up on the illusion of literary indulgence. I glanced up again.
She was standing, her computer folded and stowed away in her computer bag. She put on her coat and wrapped her scarf loosely around her delicate neck. Prolonging a few extra seconds, she looked around and back over in my direction, silently pleading for something to happen. Another misconstrued smile overtook her face, but that felt more resignation than anything.
Then she was gone...
I watched her walking away and then back to where she was sitting. I sighed and flipped open to another word.
"Resiliency"
Then the Starbucks manager politely asked me to put my pants back on.
Thanks for saying something, assholes.
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