by Everett A Warren
May 12, 2006
Sometimes you catch sight of someone, and they capture your attention so completely, so abruptly striking you to the core. You fall in love momentarily. It is the perfect relationship, because it can be anything your heart desires, so long as it lasts no more than a glance or three. The heartbreak for such an affair is minimal. Sometimes it fades when you blink. Sometimes it lasts until the far reaches of eternity, etched clearly upon vision when you close your eyes. An eternity, up to and including the moment before you forget.
It could have been the heels that caught my eye. They often do. Ever since a particular ex-girlfriend made an issue of it, I found myself using the clicking or clattering of heels as an audible magnet. I would turn to look under any circumstance, and I still have not unlearned that habit; returned back to the gentleman I once was, who had eyes only for the woman I was with. She taught with negative reinforcement, you see, for I didn't - I neither saw nor paid attention, but somewhere in her jealous heart she knew I was planning to leave her for them, to make babies with them, and to plan vast and expensive weddings. But the heels were always the key - perhaps because she looked so damn good in them, herself the target of jealousy whenever we would be in a shoe store, as the salesgirls practically squee'd with joy over her ability to walk in six inch stilettos.
It could have been the heels, as she was wearing something with high heels. Given that I have no further recollection - pumps? sandals? mules? boots, even? - I highly doubt it. No, I think it was the skirt, yellow, silk-like, swirling around her legs. That was the first glance.
Of course, it didn't hurt that she was leaning into her car to retrieve something.
The anorexic state of fashion these days does not impress me. The other day, one of the ladies at the bus stop was discussing butterflies, how they could change their entire DNA, just go in one thing, and come out another, and wouldn't she wish it if she could climb into a tanning bed and come out as Pamela Anderson. It is probably more information than I really wanted to know about her, but I was the lone male, and forgotten during that conversation. There are, of course, some curves involved with that specific example, but they are all located in the northern hemisphere, as it were, totally out of balance with reality. There is also an overall aspect of one who vomits up more than they eat, and for some strange reason - counter to all other common culture - I find that unattractive.
No, this woman had curves, located in the right places, aimed in the right directions, and she was all the more beautiful for it. I suppose some would look at her picture in a tabloid - should she ever be unfortunate enough to be victimized by one - and gossip about how plump and round she was, as they compared her to someone who had liposuctioned so much of their body that they were able to start a bio-diesel company. These theoretical gossips would, of course, be eating ding dongs and chasing them down with chocolate shakes, because that is the way of things. Look as we think you should, not as we do.
I don't want to paint an incorrect picture - I doubt, even by the overly strict standards of the current day and age, that this woman would be considered obese, or even overweight. The curves were more like a pinup girl from an earlier era, although perhaps that impression was due more to the modest length of the skirt, to the blouse that could, perhaps, have been a sweater.
The parking lot was dark, and there was only, by this time two glances. My time with her was nearly up.
The second glance was furtive, I had aimed for her in the mirror, but she was walking to the store, and I had to turn to catch her before she walked beyond my line of sight.
I thought to myself briefly that perhaps I should have browsed longer, perhaps a longer relationship could have been had within the store itself.
I hate to be stressing physical aspects here - I, for one, recognize that while beauty is a nifty thing to look at, it really rots quick when the depths of the personality are shallower than the layers of makeup. While not everyone who peruses the wares in a book store necessarily possesses those depths, it is certainly a good sign of potential. Given the length of our relationship, I am positive she is an avid reader on various subjects, an intelligent conversationalist, and so forth. Innocent until proven guilty, I always say. Unless, of course, you consider a person guilty of broadening their mind, learning new things, and, in general, reading. In that case, she's guilty as sin.
Sin really doesn't come into a relationship such as this. Sure, she may be married, and you should not covet thy neighbor's wife, but if she lived next door, you'd think I would have noticed her before. I'm pretty sure I'm in the clear as far as that goes. I'm not sure there's a court in the land that would consider three glances to be a consummated relationship, a marriage breaker, or other legal entity.
Three glances. Two so far. The third is the charm.
I drove off, which afforded me one last view, as she disappeared within the heavy wooden doors. I drove by, slowing conveniently as people walked back and forth from store to lot. The car windows were open, and a slow, ethereal guitar was playing. I'm not sure if she heard the music and turned to look; if she felt my heart reach out; or if she simply looked back to see if she needed to hold the door for the person behind her, who was several paces away.
That glance was shared.
For all that five miles per hour and a step or two through a set of doors can do, our eyes were locked one upon another. An eternity in a glance. The perfect romance.
Copyright (c) 2006 Everett Ambrose Warren