Despite his lower blood sugar levels, he was warming up to the football banter that was slowly unfolding at his table. This was a tradition after all, and it wasn't his friends fault that he was losing interest in the cordiality of the convention. It was old territory, but the revue was mandatory, as were the somewhat worn objections: Bayern Munich (his team) had won more German league titles than any other team, and had won the UEFA Championship four times, at least one more title than the best of the teams of his compatriots. He would point out (for the hundredth time) that they had won their league title consistently throughout the past century, winning five in the last decade alone. He considered these data as supreme and incontestable, and had long since stopped listening to any protestations. The only question tonight was whether or not they would boil the debate down to its sinews and drag in thirty years worth of players. He didn't have the energy to support Franz Beckenbauer vs Bobby Charlton as he should, determined to ply his second trade of the evening - somehow talking to the woman a dozen feet away that had captured his imagination and who had exposed the hole in his soul.
He liked her posture, odd he thought to like a posture, but he did. She was taller than he imagined he would prefer, and probably thinner. As he tumbled down a list of her attributes, he noticed there was no compromise, no talking himself into any uncomfortable features or quirky facets - she would be perfect as his eyes poured over her, smoothing, assuaging, purifying. He had watched an old man spreading plaster on a wall once, his hands softly pulling a trowel down not filling in the imperfections, but asserting his love into the texture of the space. He knew it would be like this each time he looked at her, in any light, in any place he would reconstruct her this way with his eyes, his longing, his love. There would be no fade either, nothing of hers would ever lose this newness, each time he looked at her would be like this, there would be no fade.
It occurred to him that she might break his heart, somewhere in the midst of his second frufy coffee and an argument about the best goal-keeper in the modern era. He wasn't afraid of this possibility, as he had been sufficiently (in his mind anyway) inoculated with enough love and loss cliches by his favorite author, Paulo Coehlo. Deep down though, he supposed surviving her loss before he even met her would be more than he might cope with, literary under girding aside. He had already weathered a few heartaches, but the things he felt now for this woman whispered their admonitions, pleading portents of pain should he fail her, them.
Pain was a relatively new concept for him. The few failures in relationships had been difficult and he was lonely now, wondering at once whether he should even consider pursing this current interest. He suspected that the consequences of his previous dalliances would be minor compared to losing her. This was all new territory for him - a new threat to his recent resolution to be more assertive; now instead of worrying about initial rejection, he worried that she would be receptive, and that he would then lose her. It was all a bit overwhelming for a two minute silent soliloquy.
He wondered what Paulo would do at this moment. Was Paulo ever a "ladies man?" Would he stroll over and talk to the woman not feeling his friends' eyes on his back, or the forbidding force field projected by her zealous guardians? What would he say if he actually made it to the table unscathed? Would Paulo acknowledge the other two, even include them in a conversation? Or would he focus entirely on the object of his desire? Would she be responsive? Would she see his immediate charm, be overwhelmed by the language of his love? He frowned a bit, realizing for the first time that he had something less than a positive thought about his would-be mentor - he was now jealous of Paulo Coehlo.
He felt like he was in his own philosophy class. Sliding between realities and fantasies, losing the distinction between either. He had never been folded into and against himself like this. He was sure his friends were noticing his distractions, they probably figured he was tired. He was working a new job after all, one that was very demanding and required odd hours at work. Maybe that was it, he was fatigued and that explained all of this metaphysical musing. There - he had just gone thirty five seconds without thinking about her. He wondered if he could do it again, but doubted it. Looking at her again, he caught her looking back for the first time, and he didn't know what to do other than to hold her eyes with his. When she broke contact, he almost looked away but did not. Her eyes returned to his with a renewed resolve, and he knew for the first time that his imagination could now take substance. He was a bit light headed, not exactly sure if he was in love, or if he had ingested too much caffeine - it didn't much matter at this point, the night would be like no other.
To be continued....
He liked her posture, odd he thought to like a posture, but he did. She was taller than he imagined he would prefer, and probably thinner. As he tumbled down a list of her attributes, he noticed there was no compromise, no talking himself into any uncomfortable features or quirky facets - she would be perfect as his eyes poured over her, smoothing, assuaging, purifying. He had watched an old man spreading plaster on a wall once, his hands softly pulling a trowel down not filling in the imperfections, but asserting his love into the texture of the space. He knew it would be like this each time he looked at her, in any light, in any place he would reconstruct her this way with his eyes, his longing, his love. There would be no fade either, nothing of hers would ever lose this newness, each time he looked at her would be like this, there would be no fade.
It occurred to him that she might break his heart, somewhere in the midst of his second frufy coffee and an argument about the best goal-keeper in the modern era. He wasn't afraid of this possibility, as he had been sufficiently (in his mind anyway) inoculated with enough love and loss cliches by his favorite author, Paulo Coehlo. Deep down though, he supposed surviving her loss before he even met her would be more than he might cope with, literary under girding aside. He had already weathered a few heartaches, but the things he felt now for this woman whispered their admonitions, pleading portents of pain should he fail her, them.
Pain was a relatively new concept for him. The few failures in relationships had been difficult and he was lonely now, wondering at once whether he should even consider pursing this current interest. He suspected that the consequences of his previous dalliances would be minor compared to losing her. This was all new territory for him - a new threat to his recent resolution to be more assertive; now instead of worrying about initial rejection, he worried that she would be receptive, and that he would then lose her. It was all a bit overwhelming for a two minute silent soliloquy.
He wondered what Paulo would do at this moment. Was Paulo ever a "ladies man?" Would he stroll over and talk to the woman not feeling his friends' eyes on his back, or the forbidding force field projected by her zealous guardians? What would he say if he actually made it to the table unscathed? Would Paulo acknowledge the other two, even include them in a conversation? Or would he focus entirely on the object of his desire? Would she be responsive? Would she see his immediate charm, be overwhelmed by the language of his love? He frowned a bit, realizing for the first time that he had something less than a positive thought about his would-be mentor - he was now jealous of Paulo Coehlo.
He felt like he was in his own philosophy class. Sliding between realities and fantasies, losing the distinction between either. He had never been folded into and against himself like this. He was sure his friends were noticing his distractions, they probably figured he was tired. He was working a new job after all, one that was very demanding and required odd hours at work. Maybe that was it, he was fatigued and that explained all of this metaphysical musing. There - he had just gone thirty five seconds without thinking about her. He wondered if he could do it again, but doubted it. Looking at her again, he caught her looking back for the first time, and he didn't know what to do other than to hold her eyes with his. When she broke contact, he almost looked away but did not. Her eyes returned to his with a renewed resolve, and he knew for the first time that his imagination could now take substance. He was a bit light headed, not exactly sure if he was in love, or if he had ingested too much caffeine - it didn't much matter at this point, the night would be like no other.
To be continued....
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