He knew she was coming. He wanted to be ready; he wanted her to see him the way he wanted to be seen. The moments when he was vulnerable to being caught off-guard worried him; he obsessed over them in an attempt to minimize their frequency. He had conceived a notion of his 'element,' and it was in the epitome of that element that he wanted to be seen, to be recognized, to be remembered.
He sat ponderously, pen in hand, in a premeditated pose as he awaited her arrival. He knew precisely what she would see when she looked at him; he had painstakingly made sure his appearance was precisely as he wanted it. The anticipation of her arrival quickened his pulse now; he took a deep breath and looked down as he cautiously checked his hair with his hand once more in a nervous habit.
The book in his hands offered him distraction, but only in small doses. His eyes kept darting periodically from the page to the door, to the window, for a glimpse, a sound, anything that would signal (or even suggest) her impending arrival. The door creaked (it was not her); someone coughed (it was not her); a whisper from the corner (still not her). He kept himself readied for her emergence; it was critical for him to maintain his focus lest hebe caught unaware.
At last, she appeared. He recognized her form, her demeanor, peripherally; her black hair curled slightly up and out at the bottom, as it dangled just above her shoulders. Her stride was neither hesitant nor confident, but it was closer to the latter than the former when her arms were folded across her chest as they were now.
She sat down near him. He took a casual glance about as she did, inhaling nasally (unnecessarily), with a meticulously calculated nonchalance. He strove (successfully) to just barely take notice of her arrival; acknowledgement had been out of the question. He felt empowered in his silence; his stature was heightened when he fell within the unknown. Here he could be anything and everything to her. His strength was in his possibilities as she perceived them, and he clutched to these for security, relentlessly denying the prospect of any further action that could elucidate his real character and thus threaten to undermine his assumed status.
He wanted her to look at him. He wanted her to wonder what he was thinking. He wondered what she thought he was thinking. He was, after careful preparation, a stoic there, with his face, with his aloof stare, his distracted eyes. He was the embodiment of non-concern for her situation. He was truly engrossed in his question, agonizing over the scenarios, the mechanisms, and the possible solutions in his mind. His look of determination, he thought (hoped) was surely intriguing, his iron will certainly admirable. He was perplexed (though only momentarily, of course); enveloped in astate of contemplation. He was an enigma facing one himself.
He was putting on a show. He sat in her presence distractedly for the next two hours, discretely sneaking peripheral glances as to maintain his relative disinterest. After this time, however, she gently closed her book, pondered the back cover a moment, and then got up and walked out, followed closely by his gaze. He was torturing himself with thiscomplicity.
He had taken a detour through the alley this afternoon, in order to pass by a bench where she probably would not be. But 'probably would not be' had significantly better odds than 'had never been,' so it was only natural he make the trip, if for nothing more than an outside chance. It was the anticipation that motivated him; it had to be. He was too great a coward to live in any particular moment; that implied present tense. Memory and anticipation were his realms; past and future only. Realization, the moment, was uncharted territory; it lacked such critical words as 'safety,' 'certainty,' and 'control.' It was, therefore, out of the question.
This afternoon, though, he had been faced with the moment, for there she was from a distance: a flash, the unexpected. He was ecstatic. This meant a glimpse—he could see her, and she him. He was well prepared to be seen (for the outside chance). He had rehearsed potential passing remarks, potential conversation starters, and even extensions for possible 'awkward silences' that could eventually provedisastrous. <>But when the moment came, it paralyzed him yet again. A feverish wave suddenly flushed across his face, beads of sweat appeared on the back of his neck, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ear. He became unnerved and scrambled to alter his plans.
He found himself walking by in a pre-constructed daze, back within his comfort zone. He stared distractedly down as he passed by, (as if he hadn't had even the slightest notion of her presence there!) as if concentrating on the stains of the leaves that were once on the sidewalk, how they shadowed in crimson and mahogany the ones that were there now. His attraction, he decided while berating himself for his latest failure, would have to be his mystery.
He was conscious of each time he passed in front of her window and acted as though she were gazing out at him every time. Each separate time, he reasoned, there was a chance that she could be looking out (seeing him). So he carefully gathered himself before each pass and made himself into the person he wanted her to see. God forbid sherecognize him (remember him!) any other way.
He had never met the girl. He had not even heard her speak. He was merely enraptured by her aura, her look. She was someone intriguing; this he knew (from her silence, from her mystique). He could not rationalize it; it was an instinctual obsession. Soon, though, he was going to meet this girl; he was going gather up the courage to introduce himself. Very soon. Tomorrow, in fact. Each successive failure, though, forced him to postpone, and each day postponed, he knew, was one less day he would have left. His window was progressively closing as his urgency intensified.
What was it, he wondered, that restrained him? It too, whatever it was, was strangely (cruelly) fundamental, instinctual. Why this paradox, this seemingly programmed dilemma? Look, he seemed to be told, but do not touch! Which impulse would he be forced to deny (toovercome)?
It was up to him. She would never (could never) take the initiative herself, this he knew. Exclusively from her demeanor (her walk), he knew it would've been out of character for her. He already had a well-constructed notion of the type of person she would be. For him, it could be (would have to be) completely natural, nonchalant, to introduce himself, to take the initiative. In fact, he would almost be doing her a favor. It would, in any case, be progress; a move from the status quo.His one attempt at an introduction (at acknowledgement) had surprised them both. It was met with a momentarily startled look, then a hurried reciprocation, as clumsy as its unplanned stimulus; and that was it. Though it was far from ideal, it was certainly fitting.
He could not help but to analyze the one encounter. She probably had not expected anymore than to simply walk by, focusing on the ground as usual, and nothing more. She had no reason to expect any different; there had been no prior interaction between them, and there was no sign (sigh!) that there would be anytime in the perceivable future. What other reaction could be hoped for?
Had she thought anymore of it? Had she ever looked at him as more than just background, a passer-by, an extra? He feared (hopelessly) that she had not. And hence the apprehension seeded within his fascination (but the status quo simply would not do).
He sat quietly (thoughtfully) at a bench of his own now, preoccupied rather than distracted. He was relaxed, mindless, (disorganized!) just before he realized that she was about to pass by.
Again, he found himself flushed with chaos and reaction, the realization of which simultaneously triggered an instant of utter exasperation. On her approach, she looked over at him (he sensed it), and there was an ideal moment (frozen) for him to establish eye contact, for a smile (for success!). But almost automatically, before he even realizedwhat he was doing, he began (and continued) to stare profoundly at his blank notebook page, lost in his hastily reconstructed, disgustingly artificial enigma as her eyes left him; acknowledgement had been out of the question.
