Bar Creeper

 

I took a break from my writing to stand up and let my eyes explore the room I was in. I’d placed myself strategically: just within a particular woman’s peripheral vision. This was a very beautiful woman whom I was then seeing for the third time.

Sighting #1: Monday night Bear-e-oke. One table from mine. Personal reaction: “Holy shit I want her. She’s beautiful. She’s wearing glasses. She must be my type.”

Sighting #2: Synthesis’ On The Town photos. She was smiling from the middle of a group of people. I knew her by the perfect face, and the glasses. Personal reaction: “Her arm’s around a guy. Game over. Didn’t really like her anyway.”

So, did I mention this woman I was ogling was beautiful? Thick-bodied, wavy brown hair. Black, thick-rimmed glasses that obviously signaled her intelligence. Make-up that didn’t cover up anything, but accentuated everything. Her face was one I could’ve stared at for ten minutes, straight. Twenty minutes if I was on drugs. Forty minutes if I was in love.

This particular night, in this bar, she was acting as if she were single. I remembered the photograph the Synthesis printed of her, where she had had her arm around a guy who looked like he could be her boyfriend… he was very dapper. Striped sweater, perfectly gelled hair, perfectly chiseled masculine face. The kind of guy I imagined a thick-rimmed-glasses girl would love to date. They looked perfectly nauseating together in that photograph. They were both here tonight, but they were obviously not here together. Intriguing!

“Single she may be, but she’s still totally unapproachable,” I thought to myself, as I watched her sit down with a group of strangers. I continued to observe… she seemed like the kind of person who always had the right thing to say… “Better hang back and keep my cool,” I thought. My writing continued.

I have a problem with girls whose faces are so perfect (like hers). They seem so unapproachable. “They’re shallow,” I’ve told myself. “They’ve never had to experience being ugly,” I’ve told myself. These are a couple of lingering ideas from when I believed I was an ugly man. I was fortunate then. I also harbored the belief that “women mainly value personality over looks…” Beautiful women would still approach me, and I’d get over my ego-trip, and occasionally, I’d even allow miracles to happen.

“Shit,” I said. Glasses-girl had left while I was busy writing about myself. “Would I have made a move if she had stayed?” I asked my pad of paper. “How do I even approach women I want to meet?”

Here, a different part of my mind emerged to answer the question. “Well, I wait for the window to open. I do my own thing, making sure that I’m within her view while I do it. I assume that she’s noticed me (I’m a noticeable kind of guy), and that she just needs time to examine, and evaluate. If she’s intrigued, the two of us will subconsciously drift together at the right time.”

“Does that actually work?” I ventured to ask.

“No,” came the reply, “not really. But we’re too awkward for anything else.” We both nodded solemnly in agreement.

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Howl was born in the wastes north of Hithlum, where only beasts and witches dare roam. He was raised by two old hags, Tabby and Wiles, who had an unhealthy fascination towards the literary arts. Howl now resides in a well-furnished cave off South Rim Trail, complete with an old iBook and Wi-Fi.