The Fine Print
After an enduring streak of heartache and heartbreak—with nothing left to lose, and still blinded by the disgrace of my last failed courtship—I resolved to do the complete opposite of everything I felt to be proper.
I placed an ad in the ‘Personals’ of the Merrington Times Weekly.
“Looking for love: Bitter young man. Unfaithful, flirtatious, depressed and unpredictable. Give me a chance to screw up my life and do my best to take you with me. – Julian”
The week passed and I laughed off my momentary lapse of judgment and went about my business. By the time Tuesday rolled around, the day that the paper was printed, I had forgotten about the ad completely—save for a small regret related to the twenty-four dollars it had cost me to publish.
That very afternoon, not yet past lunchtime, I was phoned by a soft-spoken woman who called herself Allison. She told me that she rarely noticed the personal ads; yet mine had captured her attention and held her curiosity to such a degree that she felt obliged to call me and arrange a meeting. Needless to say, I was quite taken aback. But, I soon recovered enough to schedule coffee for that afternoon.
I placed the phone receiver back in its cradle and set about finishing my lunch (a rather delightful salad with thin slices of warm, seasoned chicken decorating its edges). Before I had raised a bite to my mouth, the phone sang out once more. I assumed— based on the timing of the call and my recent luck—that it would be Allison again, most likely canceling our coffee. But to my surprise it was a different woman. This one named Kathryn. We exchanged pleasantries and she told me that she, too, had seen my ad and felt compelled to call. We spoke for a few minutes longer and I designated tomorrows brunch hour as sixty minutes we could share. I thanked her for her call and said goodbye.
Now, I like to consider myself somewhat of a cultured man, knowing more than a little about literature and art. And, at this very moment, I was quite sure that I was existing within an artwork of my own; whether it be a fabulous tale or some type of surreal portrait. Nevertheless, I sat on my bench by my table and finished my lunch, feeling somewhat proud of the attention I had sparked. I even went so far as to congratulate myself when, as if to underline my brilliance, the phone rang once more.
This one’s name was Whitney and she spoke with an accent I couldn’t quite place. It sounded Swiss, but with a faint trace of Italian laced along its edges. Her voice was low and musical, with colorful tones that seduced me before I understood what she was saying. Her story was much the same as the previous ladies and I arranged to meet her for dinner on Friday. We spoke for a little longer. I mainly asked questions to keep her talking in her delightful accent. After we had finished talking, I kept my ear to the phone until she had hung up and then left mine off the hook. Three dates was sufficient for now, I had to be careful not to overbook myself- after all, I had always found something seductive about seclusion.
The afternoon passed slowly as the sun rolled gently down the summer sky, like a glorious marble on a slanted footpath. I pressed my shirt myself, and bathed, taking the time to shave cleanly and pluck at the unruly hairs bordering my eyebrows. I indulged myself in a splash of cologne on each wrist and set about to Jeritaros—the finest lounge in the city—for a coffee with the first caller, Allison.
We met at the gate. She was wearing the most ridiculous feather hat. It was all fire reds and royal blues. And although she spoke with a gentle voice, she was pushy and rude. She even had the nerve to laugh at me when a waitress stumbled by and splashed hot coffee on my lap. We spoke freely on a range of subjects. Not transitioning from one into the other naturally, but rather jumping about desperately in order to prevent an uncomfortable silence from sprouting like an unwelcome weed (for silences, like weeds, spread quickly and without remorse). However, it was a fruitless cause—I liked Steinbeck and she liked Capote. I enjoyed Schumann and she adored Liszt. I idolized the beauty and majesty of the painted line and she had eyes simply for photographs. By the end of conversation, I was glad I had agreed on coffee and not upon a long, drawn out affair, such as dinner.
I paid the bill and signaled a cab, kissed her on the cheek and bade her (and her ridiculous hat farewell). Then, whistling something that sounded a lot like Schumann, I made my way home.
A day later I found myself seated across from Kathryn for brunch, chuckling gently at yet another story that she had recounted in the most comical fashion. She was a gem of a woman, with hazel brown hair that hung lightly on her shoulders. Her bright eyes danced behind fashionably petite spectacles as she spoke.
“I was caught in the rain, you see, and I had lost my map. It was dreadful, most dreadful. You must know how city streets all look the same at night?”
I nodded with a smile and her eyes lit up, telling a story of their own, as she continued.
“Well I walked around blindly. I had lost my glasses by that time so there is no way of knowing, but I tell you I must have circled the same street four times. Anyway, eventually I decided to ask for help. So I found a child and asked some simple questions trying to figure out where I was. At first I was offended that the little brat didn’t answer, but little did I realize that the child was actually nothing of the sort”
I waited with baited breath for her to go on,
“You see, Julian my dear, I was talking to a hydrant!”
I burst into laughter once more, as I pictured this gorgeous young woman begging an inanimate fire hydrant for directions.
We spoke for a while longer and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Sipping on my squeezed orange juice only when I could be sure I wouldn’t spray it out of my nostrils in a fit of giggles. Eventually she told me that she had to get to the hospital. That she had an auntie to visit and a mother to comfort.
I gladly obliged and paid for our meal, tipping the waiting staff generously with a smile. I walked her to her car and asked when I could see her again. For the first time since I had met her, Kathryn’s eyes lost their light. She apologized gracefully and said that, although she had enjoyed herself meeting me, I was not what she was looking for in a partner. She said that she was expecting someone edgier, something more of an adventure when she read my personal ad. She told me I was a wonderful person but not her type. Then she wished me luck, bade me farewell, and climbed into her car.
For a moment, I remembered why I had written that ad in the first place.
For a moment, I considered going back inside and taking back a large portion of my generous tip.
Then I remembered Whitney.
So I spent the week waiting. I went to work, saw my patients, and I wrote out my orders—I am an optometrist by trade. But, in the back of my mind there was always Whitney—her low melodic voice, her European accent. I spent my spare moments trying to picture her. I imagined her with milky skin, golden spun hair, and powder blue eyes. I saw her being tall and graceful, small and petite, a thousand combinations of beauty—each one as delicate and terrible as its predecessor.
Friday rolled around and work dragged on like a tragedy. I called and double called to confirm my booking at ‘Aspire’, the popular French restaurant we had agreed on. When five o’clock finally decorated the face of my watch, I hit the lights and left without a passing word to my secretary Marlene.
Ninety minutes later I was dressed to dazzle. With freshly shined leather shoes that matched my checkered cufflinks, I stepped into Aspire. A smile of anticipation was engraved on my face as I approached the waiter manning the front counter.
“Here under a booking Julian Scott”
The waiter smiled perfectly and checked the books.
“Ah Mr Scott, your date is already waiting. Please, follow me through”, he said. He stepped away from his post at the restaurant’s entry and led me through the maze of mouthwatering scents and jovial conversation. My lips were trembling in anticipation up until the very moment I saw her.
Whitney.
My carved smile fell away like an eroded cliff face. She was enormous, with dark skin and arms as thick as pythons. She must have stood a foot taller than me. Both of her arms bore crude tattoos; the one on the right depicting a winged serpent coiled around a jeweled dagger, and the one on her left arm resembling barbed wire.
She squinted at me through small, suspicious eyes—while her mind made sense of the scene.
“You’re Julian?”
I could have wept. Her voice was exactly the same as the Whitney from the phone call. It was low. It was musical. Yet her accent was gone. It had been forgery, a fake, a lie all along, from the very beginning.
I mustered a nod and tried to keep myself from drawing back. She studied my profile, first in confusion, then in disappointment before finally settling on embarrassment.
Oblivious to the complete and utter hopelessness of the scene, the waiter smiled and left. I stood awkwardly beside the table, not daring to take the seat adjacent the ghetto behemoth adorned in ripped denim.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I thought you were somebody else”.
Her melodious voice had lost its pitch and every syllable grated harshly upon something deep within me. I might have claimed that it offended my very integrity, but I fear I sold that for twenty four dollars the day I sent my ad into the Weekly.
“What do you mean?” I replied, with no audible trace of emotion. It was simply a blunt question, constructed as coldly as it was spoken. Whitney blushed and dropped her gaze.
“Well, I had a boyfriend named Julian. Your ad in the personals described him perfectly. When I called, I didn’t recognize the voice, but I thought he might be faking it.”
“Like you faked your accent?”
The pieces were falling into place in the most unsatisfying of ways, like putting together a puzzle that depicted your most embarrassing moment.
“Yes, but, you’re not him. And tonight was supposed to be about him. I had something for him.”
I was lost. Well, not lost. I knew exactly what had happened. I knew the simple explanation that she had merely mistaken me for somebody else. But those facts did not seem to compute with the scenario I had imagined this date to be, every minute of every hour for the past few days.
Whitney remained seated for a minute or two, waiting politely to answer any more of my questions. But no query formed on my tongue and she eventually gathered her things, stood up—she truly was twice my size—and apologized once more. I told her not to worry, that things like this do happen and apologized myself for inadvertently deceiving her. With a toothy smile, she thanked me and left.
Alone now in Aspire, I swayed gently on the breeze of flavors floating through the kitchen door. I knew that if I kept this up I was going to pass out. To save face (both my own and the good staff of Aspire) I stumbled into a seat and spilled myself a glass of water.
The night had been a disaster. Every woman wanted something I didn’t have. Even the women that would settle for someone as loathsome as the character I advertised in print didn’t want me. I smiled sadly as a waiter crossed my table nearby and picked up the menu in search of a strong drink.
Only then did I notice Whitney’s set of cutlery.
And how it was missing a sharp-edged steak knife.
©Nathan Taylor - August 29, 2009
~~~~~~~~
A Story About A Wolf
It was a brilliant disguise. A shy demeanour, innocent eyes and a laugh like a light shower over a sparkling spring stream. They never told me that she was a wolf- rabid and starved- cloaked in tailored robes of snow white wool.
All they told me was her name.
Charli.
I approached her slowly, counting my steps to keep my mind from spinning out of control. She really was gorgeous. Straight strawberry blonde hair hung around her shoulders, framing her heart shaped face, decorated with chocolate eyes and an adorable assortment of pale freckles. I borrowed a seat from one of the small tables spaced scarcely around the room and positioned it directly across from her. Charli looked up as I sat down and a smile breached her calm expression. I tried to speak, to say something witty, something charming.
Nothing.
She disarmed me with a smile. An intricate artwork of provocative conversation had just been wiped clean. My mind was now nothing more than a blank canvas.
I just sat there. An uncomfortable silence began to fester, rusting away at the social fabric serving as her tablecloth.
The hands of the 'antique' clock on the wall behind her moved along grudgingly. She held my gaze for a long moment and then went back to the small paperback in her hands. It was a worn copy of "Breakfast at Tiffany's", whether second hand or just battered with use, I couldn't tell. She was completely absorbed in the tale, or doing an extremely convincing job of faking it.
I had been dismissed and replaced by Truman Capote’s narrative stairway by a living, breathing Holly Golightly. I felt uncomfortable.
I was bleeding confidence and she knew it.
I shifted my chair to leave and bumped her table in the process. The moment solidified and I watched her sparkling water tumble and spill as if it was moving through crystal Vaseline. The icy liquid splashed down into her lap and she was jolted from her novel, startled by the sudden change in both temperature and level of dryness.
I looked down at her pleadingly, embarrassment tattooed over my face. She graced me with a moment just long enough to propel a disgusted glance right through the heart of my fragile self esteem before standing and exiting the room silently.
I remained fixed to the spot. Shredded by the teeth of an angry wolf, with not a drop of blood to show for it.
From the safety of the bar, my friends pointed and laughed. Thoroughly entertained by events that they knew would occur. They had conspired against me and had been rewarded. I shook the cement from my legs and dragged myself back to a flock of relieved smiles and understanding eyes.
They opted to buy me a drink and the bartender was hailed from across the room. I started to relax, it had been an embarrassing ordeal but it was over now. The tension stowed within me began to fall away like rotten fruit. I accepted the bottle handed to me graciously and popped the cap.
Simultaneously, the door popped open, well, more exploded than popped. Charli was back with some friends who strongly resembled bulls- the kind of bulls that spend eight hours a day in the gym. I looked up from my drink and she caught my eye.
“That’s him”
She thrust her pointer finger at me like a sabre and my ‘friends’ cleared out like I was radioactive. I stood alone in the centre of the room like a beacon. A lightning rod in the middle of a desert. Charli’s friends moved towards me like a flash, their footsteps were thunder. I prepared myself for the inevitable beating charging at me like summer storm.
I have only been in two fights in my entire life. The first one was in first grade, my sisters boyfriend had decided to pummel me for reasons unbeknownst to anyone- including him- and the second was in fourth grade when I accidentally ate the new kids lunch.
Both times I had left the encounter resembling a surrealist artwork.
I had high expectations for this to be a similar experience.
Yet the storm never hit, they encircled me like clouds and I stood alone and untouched, maybe this was the calm before the storm…?
Or maybe there would be no storm at all, like a ray of sunlight, Charli burst through the ring of muscle with a bucket full of water in tow. I opened my mouth to ask what was going on and then suddenly I was soaked, head to toe. The water was icy, icy enough to (once again) knock my mind clean of wit and charm.
And then everyone started laughing and clapping. My friends reappeared from nowhere and slapped me on the back.
I was severely weirded out. And then Dave stepped out from a gap in the air, he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
“Sorry buddy, but we just had to… You understand right?”
Clearly I didn’t, but that was all he said.
I think I need some new friends.
©Nathan Taylor - August 17, 2009
~~~~~~~~
The Make-Out Scene
Every Friday at the Dream Club, the young and the beautiful people in town would meet. In comfortable seats in dark corners, a throbbing bass would set the mood. The lights would dim and it would begin: A sudden exchange of saliva, a wrestle of tongues, sucking lips and closed eyes. It was the Make Out Scene.
And all the coolest kids were doing it.
Gabriel was the exception, but of course, in instances such as these, he always was. He fit the profile perfectly, tall and handsome, with dark hair that hung about his ears in rich curls and grey eyes that could penetrate a crowded room.
Gabriel could have had any girl he wanted on a Friday night at the Dream Club.
But he didn’t want any of them. He was one of the strange ones, he liked to read poetry on the roof of his Mothers house and bask in the silence. Wherever the crowd was, chances are Gabriel was somewhere else. Not ignoring anyone out of spite, but lost in his own surroundings. At the frequent parties around town, the pretty girls in their scandalous clothing would ask:
“Where’s Gabe?”
“Is Gabriel coming tonight?”
No one could ever answer with much certainty. Gabriel’s social life was much like a stray plastic bag making its way down a highway. Forever caught on a breeze that noone else could sense.
Because of this lack of attention, those who didn’t know him often thought that Gabriel was arrogant. Antisocial because he thought he was too good for those around him. However, if voiced out loud, these opinions were soon extinguished by those who knew better. For anyone who spoke to Gabriel quickly realized that he was as sincere and genuine as any man they had ever met.
Which was why it was so surprising when, on a deceptively cold autumn night, Gabriel stepped into the back room at the Dream Club. He wore a maroon sweater, knitted with thin cotton, and dark jeans with pockets that made poor work of holding his hands. A small colony of frost had budded on the edge of his left shoulder and even in the paltry light of the room; anyone watching could see him shake softly in a silent fit of shivers.
He surveyed the room curiously, a small smile on his lips and an innocent gleam behind his eyes. The room was quiet and remained that way until a nameless girl stood up on long legs, and swayed seductively to his side. She forced a polystyrene smile and batted polystyrene eyelashes. She took his hand and led him a couch dressed in soft, purple cotton. She seated herself and pulled his hand gently so that he would do the same. Gabriel allowed himself to be eased on the couch, it was very comfortable.
He let his eyes wander back to his surroundings. People all around the room were watching, their eyes unblinking and their lungs frozen in anticipation. The girl beside him turned her supple body to face his and leaned in closer. Her eyes closed and her vanilla scented lips pursed as the distance between them rapidly diminished.
“What is this place?”
Gabriel’s whispered query caught the girl off guard. The vanilla advance stopped in its tracks and her eyes jumped open. A barely audible gasp from somewhere to the left sounded like a trump compared to the silence surrounding the couple that had now captured the attention of everyone in attendance.
“What do you mean?”
Her whispered carried to every corner of the room. Suddenly, the girls’ cool complexion began to glow a pale pink.
“What is this place? What is everyone doing here? What is going on?”
With every question, Gabriel’s voice grew louder, by the time he was finished, the gentle glow on the girls cheeks had become a brilliant summer sunset. Her eyes jumped around the room, desperately seeking rescue. A boy in the corner provided it when he stood up and announced:
“This is the Make-Out Scene. If you want in, stay. If not, you’re free to leave”
Realization exploded across Gabriel’s composed features. He looked at the various couples sharing more than just seats around him. He looked at the girl seated next to him, she had her head in her hands, her face was hidden behind a brunette curtain. A pang of guilt broke through his shock. Gabriel took her hand and squeezed it softly.
“I’m sorry for embarrassing you” he whispered in her ear.
Then he stood up and walked to the door. He pushed it partway open, stopped, and turned around. Every eye was pinned to him, every ear alert to listen to what it was he was about to say.
“Every kiss you give away is a kiss you are never going to get back. Every kiss you give away demeans the one that will follow it. You’re free to do what you want, but I’m saving mine for the woman who I know is saving hers for me.”
The Make-Out Scene could only reply with silence.
With that witty retort in full force, Gabriel took leave of the Dream Club and entered the waiting night. Not long after, the nameless girl on the purple couch left as well. Then another, and another.
That night, one by one, the Dream Club emptied.
Not long after, the Make-Out Scene closed down permanently.
And all over town, the girls saved their kisses.
©Nathan Taylor - April 29, 2009
~~~~~~~~
Somewhere Only We Know
First there was Erin. Then there was Maree.
After Maree there was Alexandra, Jennifer and Carol.
If you repeat the same word over and over, it loses all meaning.
Apparently, this also works with heartbreak.
So you couldn’t have imagined my surprise when things with Emma came crashing down. It was a brilliant burning explosion, terrible and beautiful, like two meteors colliding in empty space.
We drove out of town and I knew something was wrong. The world seemed sapped of life and colour. Cars progressed sluggishly along abandoned streets, stoplights flashed grey, and even the sky looked as if it was spread over with a thin film of smoke.
Her lips were pursed, her eyes- her perfect green eyes- were set on the road in front of her. I knew what it was all about. Emma had read my writing, old bits and pieces. Evidently, Emma did not approve. They were letters to girls, girls long forgotten, girls who had destroyed pieces of me, pieces that I don’t even remember having.
But that wasn’t the issue; the problem wasn’t what the writing was about but what the writing contained. Phrases and rhymes, moments and metaphors. Things that appeared in writing from long ago and things that may have reappeared in writing devoted to her.
I guess she felt like our entire relationship was based on a series of recycled lines.
Of course I’ve been wrong.
We turned left onto a narrow back road, the gentle clicking of her indicator brought me back to the moment. A flock of dark clouds were gathering on the horizon, and the hilly fields on either side of us swallowed our road from the prying eyes of the main highway.
Emma traced her way through the country landscape seamlessly, over hills and around bends until she pulled into a dirt driveway leading down into a grassy valley. A bubbling stream snaked its way across the road and curled around a thick willow. Emma crossed a harshly built wooden bridge and pulled off to the left.
She cut the ignition and got out.
I followed.
We walked to the willow wordlessly. The clouds previously based on the horizon had spilled over the entire sky.
She sat on the grass with her back up against the tree. She was gorgeous. She was petite in three quarter length jeans. She wore a plain white top with the sleeves cut short. Her brunette hair hung neatly above her shoulders, she had pale skin with light freckles on her cheeks and brilliant green eyes.
She smiled, a shallow dimple bloomed on her right cheek and the world couldn’t help but brighten slightly. I sat down beside her.
We didn’t talk for a little while. We just sat and enjoyed the cool breeze, the soft grass, the melodic splashes of the stream. It was a nice moment, overshadowed only by the circumstances that gave it birth.
“I don’t think this will work”, she said.
I let the words sink in. I felt the familiar plummeting of my stomach and waited for my head to clear so that I could say something I wouldn’t regret later.
“I know you, Emma, and I know that you would have looked at this from every angle before bringing me out here”
She nodded, her eyes were fixed on the ground in front of her.
“But I’m in love with you. I want to fight for this. All I can say now is that I’m sorry and hope that you want to fight for this too”
I left it there, I didn’t want to push anything but I wasn’t going to lay down and die on what she had said.
She acknowledged me with a brief nod, her eyes remained set on a spot on the grass but they were glazed over slightly. Doors closed while she mulled over a decision.
Lightning crashed in the distance and small tears welled up in her eyes. The fell down her face, glistening like silver jewels as they dropped to the earths floor.
“I’m sorry”, she said again, this time in a half whisper.
She stood up and it hit me again, it hit me like a comet, like I hadn’t been hit in years.
If you say the same word again and again, it quickly loses its meaning.
Apparently, this also works with heartbreak. Except during rare instances.
Instances where she is special, where she is unique.
Like a word you had never heard before.
Like a word you will never hear again.
©Nathan Taylor - April 7, 2009
~~~~~~~~
A Rainy Valentine
This Valentines Day, it rained.
I know this, because I decided to walk through it. It was cold and wet (as rain often is) and my green shirt was soon speckled with the offspring of a pregnant cloud. I could have taken the car.
In hindsight, I probably should have taken the car.
But fuel costs money and money is getting expensive. Much more expensive than when it grew on tall trees with deep roots.
So I walked to the post office. Today was the most romantic day of the year and I wanted to do something special. I had spent the morning sprawled out on a dusty red rug with nothing for company but a blank page and the cheap kind of pen that takes a perverse pleasure in running out of ink every second sentence. With these weapons of mass instruction, I slowly composed a vivid mind map, illustrated with as many different ideas as I could fit on paper. Some of them were beautiful, some of them were boring. Some were complex and others were simple.
I liked the simple ideas the best. They had such a fundamental beauty about them. So I surveyed my artwork and chose the most basic idea of them all.
This Valentines Day, I would send her my heart.
So I walked to the post office in the cold Valentines Day rain, it was a single story building- brick, with big windows and lots of envelopes. Gaping jaws studded with a thousand tiny teeth, each one ordered perfectly by size, color and shape. I considered those teeth and my stomach dropped, submersed by the February weather. The twin glass doors slid open smoothly with a mechanical anticipation. I didn't enter straight away, but rather remained fixed to the footpath outside, a solitary stalagmite in an eroding cave. The doors buzzed at my hesitance, angry wasps in a fast paced business and I crossed the threshold.
To say I was bewildered would be a gross understatement. The pale walls were lined with rows of envelopes and boxes. Some were for urgent delivery and others looked like they wouldn't survive the trip out of the building. I picked my way up and down the aisles, picking up the occasional package and holding it to my chest. Testing its weight, its durability and always checking the size of the object it was destined to hold.
After nearly an hour of searching I established a colorful collection of different packages. I honestly had no idea which one was the best size for my heart.
I stood in line behind a man who smelled like Sunday morning scotch. He wore a long grey jacked and kept scratching the bald spot on the back of his head. I passed the time by counting the seconds in the scratch-free intervals. The longest he could go was eight seconds. He must have had an itchy head. I felt sorry for him. A voice aimed in my direction invited me to a counter on the left. I stepped over with my arms full of boxes and asked the lady at the desk which was best. She was young and rather pretty, with brown hair so dark it was almost black and a gorgeous smile that surfaced frequently- often accompanied by a shallow dimple on her right cheek. Her name was Stephanie and she didn’t know what I was talking about. She apologized for not being more helpful and called for the next customer. I danced around those still in line and made my way back into the labyrinth. Those around me ducked their heads in passing, they were busy finding their own envelopes and it didn’t feel right to bother them.
So I went outside and I called my friend. He was smart, he would know.
The orchestra in my phone played softly in my ear with only the smallest sense of urgency.
Once, twice, three times before it calmed down.
“Hello”
“Hello friend, I need your help”
He listened patiently on the other line as I explained the situation and then volunteered his opinion. I listened patiently, thanked him and said goodbye. I waited for him to hang up and severed my own connection with a click. The rain picked up with the encouragement of a strong wind and I considered my friends advice for a moment. Unfortunately, it made sense.
So I pulled my jacket tightly around me and stepped into the waiting storm. The tears from the sky played an apt disguise for those now building up in the corners of my eyes.
I would have liked to send her my heart for Valentines Day.
But my friend talked me out of it,
He said, “Why would you send her something broken”
©Nathan Taylor - February 14, 2009
~~~~~~~~
William
From an observer's perspective, there was nothing wrong with William.
He was moderately attractive, occasionally charming, intelligent, witty and surprisingly coordinated. He wasn't everything a desirable young lady would want… But he wasn't a creature to be avoided and shunned- mocked in private circles- William was just… Normal.
William didn't see this though. He couldn't. Every morning when he would wake up, he would stumble into his small bathroom, look in the mirror, and cringe at the grotesque figure staring back at him. Every discolored blemish was magnified five fold, every stray hair stuck out, exposed, like fireworks in the snow.
It was for this reason, this debilitating lack of confidence, that William had never had a girlfriend. He lied to his friends, he told them about his various 'lady friends' from Wilconsville and Mollaca- amongst other surrounding towns- but inside his head, William knew that no girl could ever see anything within him. He had nothing to offer, he had nothing they needed.
The other problem was Williams’ ridiculously high standards. Pretty girls did not appeal to him the way they did to other men. Sitting at a pale plastic bench in an empty diner, he would watch the people on the grimy city footpath through a grimy city window. They walked with rushed footsteps and morose expressions. Faces always turned down. Occasionally, a petite brunette would hurry past, eyes set on the pathway, William noticed the heads of the men in the diner, how they would swivel like rusting office chairs as they followed the girl’s progress across the window. Minds mesmerized by the brisk sway of her walk, William saw the greedy eyes surrounding him.
He never saw the girl.
The girls that William did see, the girls he remembered more than a fleeting shadow of a moment, were few. They were the odd ones, not many. They weren't the type of girls that ran with the crowd. They weren't the type of girls that would attract the tags "sexy" or "hot". They were girls who were beautiful. They saw the world with a deeper understanding than they let on; a small smile played across their lips when they woke up in the morning; the irises of their eyes were deep, deep with a knowledge that cannot be learned nor conveyed to others.
The girls as sublime and unique as those William sought were rare.
If they existed at all.
William shifted uncomfortably against a poorly welded steel bench. It was a forgettable Tuesday afternoon, scattered clouds cast odd shadows against decaying skyscrapers. They looked like skulls. Skulls filled with busy workers- hurrying to make deadlines, hurrying to finish their afternoon affairs. Hurrying like worms, digesting the flesh of a dying organism. It made William feel sick. He shifted again, trying to find some measure of comfort against the unforgiving steel. The 406 train at Grande Street Station was, once again, late, and William could not help but think of how much he hated the place he called home.
The familiar sound of electronically simulated bells shook reality back into focus. The cement skyscrapers no longer resembled gargantuan skeletal remains, they were simply there. Silent. Solemn. Nothing more than the final product of a preconceived design. The 406 came into sight, rounding the final bend from the tunnel below the river. Screeching like a demon as it came to a halt. William rose from the steel bench, stretching briefly at the edge of the platform.
The ancient behemoth was disgusting. Layers of dirt and skin caked the handrails while the few remaining scraps of fabric that littered the seats were stained with blood and grease. The entire cabin smelled of sour urine.
With hands buried inside the protective pockets of his faded jeans, William moved to the most hygienic seat he could find, it was a foam lump that resembled a thorn bush. He scrunched his nose in disgust as he sat down. The soiled public seating groaned as it struggled to support his weight, a considerable challenge when combined with the unpredictable, yet consistent rocking of the train. A small cough in the seat across from William made him look up. Until now, she had escaped his notice. She had stepped silently onto the train and quickly taken a seat. Her hair was a unique shade of blonde, like strands of silver dipped in caramel and her eyes were as a sapphire observed through a diamond.
Of course she was gorgeous, but that's not what caught Williams’s eye. That's not what held his attraction.
She held a small smile in her inventory, ready to load and fire at any given moment. A straight set of sunset-pink lips that curved slightly on the edges. She was beautiful, both in a physical sense and in a way that could never be put to paper. For a moment, she looked up and caught Williams gaze. A blue eyed lightning bolt jolted him into averting his eyes. Suddenly, the putrid floor of the 406 southbound became extremely interesting. William studied it intently for the duration of the trip.
The bell rang; the train slowed; and William looked up, through an opaque handprint- the only clear section on the window- he could see it was his stop. The beautiful, remarkable, unique girl was still there. Facing his direction, her eyes, her brilliant eyes could have very well been on him, but William was turned deliberately in the other direction. He knew that he was not what this girl wanted. William had nothing he could offer.
So he stood, embarrassed, and stepped quickly from the train.
He never saw her again.
©Nathan Taylor - October 8, 2008
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