Control And Isabel Ch 01

Preface: I want feedback, as I want this first chapter to make you beg for the second chapter, or else I'm not doing my job.

Warning, it is the first chapter of a novel. So it reads like one also. Not much "action", but I feel like it makes up for it in psychological awareness.

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Chapter 1: On my way to work

The walk from my apartment to the hospital is one of my favorite times of day. As a 4th year surgical resident, I don't get much consistency in my days, due to emergency surgeries, extended shifts, and so on. But on my walk to work, everyone rushes, and rarely looks up from their phones. It is rare that someone walks by me on the sidewalk that I haven't seen at the same time each morning for the past 4 years.

Throughout my life, I've found that the only quality more important than consistency, is control. Has any war been won, any disease cured, without someone spending their life aiming to control what is around him, whether that is the enemy or a disease? For me, I'm not entirely sure when I developed this desire, or even this need, for the utmost control of my life. It has laid its possessive hand in every aspect in my life. My career, my routines, my relationships. As for my career and daily routines, I believe control is the reason I thrive at what I do. But I have found its role in relationships to be more troublesome. That is, for others, not for me. The thing about control, is that there are no lines drawn. The ends seem to justify the means, as long as the goal is desired strongly enough. And this is where my need for both consistency and control begin to conflict. When I become surrounded by consistency, the uncivilized, unpolished part of me begins to seek out ways to control things (or people) that seem out of reach. Which leads us to my route to work this morning.

As I walked along, I noticed someone I had never seen walking out of the corner coffee shop. She wasn't dressed in the greys or blacks like most of the women on my block headed to work. The woman on the sidewalk was wearing a colorful dress that seemed more for her enjoyment than for the people around her: a rare quality, especially at 6:30 in the morning on a busy street. The dress reminded me of an Ingrid Michaelson song. She is about 20 feet from me and I try reading the name on her coffee cup, but she is too far away and the ink looks smudged. I see her eyes meet mine, then hers turn to the man in front of me then back to me before the ground in front of her. I watch as she glances back and realizes that I haven't looked away from her. She quickly takes out her cell phone and does a decent job pretending to be distracted. I know this game. She is going to look at the screen until she is 5 feet from me, when she will then feel socially safe enough to quickly glance to see if I was still looking at her. She did, and I was.

I meant to take another look at her coffee cup, but I was more intrigued with her expression as she looked up. I could tell that I made her uncomfortable, and I loved it. Instead of looking back down, we kept gaze for about 3 seconds, which is probably 2.5 seconds more than she usually allows herself. Green eyes with tan olive skin. When we were past each other, I considered looking back to see if she was brave enough to do the same, but then decided to avoid the cliché. I had to get to work, so I left it alone and continued on.

The next morning, I saw her again leaving the same coffee shop, and she saw me. This time when saw each other, she looked away so fast that it was obvious I had caught her. It was like she was looking for me, and was embarrassed when I knew it. People say first impressions matter most, but I've found it depends on your intentions. My first impression of her only fairly intrigued me. It wasn't her short dress or her figure, but my interest came from watching her own surprise that she'd allowed herself to make eye contact with a strange man for so long. However, I could already tell this morning that she knew she may see me again. This means that she could prepare, and that's where second impressions become more telling. If she wished to pretend yesterday morning's encounter didn't happen, she could merely walk by me, and we'd both know it was the end of our brief thirty-second sidewalk acquaintance. But this was not the case, and she made it more obvious than she knew.

As I said yesterday, the purpose of her dress seemed to be to keep her mood light and cheery. It was colorful enough for her to not be taken seriously, and she seemed fine with it. But this morning, whether she meant to or not, she was dressed for me. Instead of appearing bubbly and innocent again, her dress told me she wanted me to look, and I knew she was going to try her hardest to hide her intent. She was already prepared with her cell-phone and coffee in hand, doing a fairly convincing job of seeming occupied. But I was waiting for the millisecond-long look she was planning on striking me with to see if I was going to do the same. But I'm not interested in this nervous-appearing social ritual. My eyes didn't leave her face. When the moment came, I made sure she saw the whites of my eyes. This way, she could see my smirk that portrayed that I knew what she was trying to do. I also made sure that her eyes watched mine move slowly down her body. Then at last second before I passed her, I brought my eyes up back to her nervous and blushing face.

I wanted her to know that whether or not she wore that body-tight dress for me, I slowly and greedily enjoyed it. But nowhere in this morning's encounter did I smile. A smile is friendly, but I have no interest in becoming friends with her. It wouldn't be fair for my face to portray good intentions when the rest of me clearly was somewhere else. After seeing her face respond to my gaze this morning, I think she understood this. Her response, well, that would come tomorrow.

My thoughts waking up usually contain details of the patients we will operate on that day, and other hospital-related tasks I need to prepare for. But this morning, I was surprised when the woman's dress came to mind. I was surprised that she let herself make a "move", no matter how subtle it was. The first day I saw her, she looked shy enough to go weeks of quick glances at each other just to make sure that she wasn't simply imagining my harsh attention on her. My initial, lustful glare had worked better than expected. Now I was intrigued. I could tell it wasn't common for her to wear dresses as "adult" as she had worn on the second morning. I even scanned her dress looking for a tag sticking out. Her nervous smile waiting for me to look showed me that I was in her head, and that made her uncomfortable. And seeing her uncomfortable as she attempted to be her version of "bad" seemed to hold my attention more than I expected. I wanted this again. I didn't want to allow her to fall back into the passive girl I assume she pretends to be in the remainder of her day. I needed her to take another small step forward into deeper waters, and I wanted proof that I was in her head. I had a plan.

This morning, I left my apartment 15 minutes earlier than usual, and walked my usual route until I saw the coffee shop up on the left. Then I slowed down and watched. After scanning the crowd ahead of me, I saw her and she saw me with a nearly frantic look appearing on her face. I was early, and this was the time she normally entered the shop. I wanted to force her into a decision. Would she walk into the coffee shop per usual and miss a third brief encounter? Or would she skip the coffee and walk past the shop? The latter would show us both that she's willing to change her plans to continue whatever game we started. She walked past it. Good girl, she knows how to keep my interest. We were both in. Most men need woman handcuffed to their bed before they understand she has submitted to them. I'm not saying that's out of the question, but if you pay attention, you'll notice that walking past a coffee shop may be all you need to know.

As she walks in my direction, anyone would be able to sense the uneasiness in her walk. Her comfort zone was behind that coffee shop door that she just left behind. I can see the regret in her motions. She knows she's vulnerable. This makes her even more gorgeous in her second day of tight dresses, this time black, her shoulders bare. The combination of her sexy, subtle curves with her look of vulnerability grips me, and I know I'm stepping further into whatever we have. I see her bring her phone out and move to her right to lean on a storefront and begin talking. I know there's no one on the other side of that call. I've used this trick many times, and beginners like her give too much emotion to try and sell the passers-by on their "conversation", and that's the tell that it's fake. She's going to stand there talking to a blank phone, giving her the chance to hide behind the call while she is able to watch to see if I noticed her again. Except she needs to know that I am past the subtle social game with her. I want whatever the hell the next part of our game is.

I stop walking in the middle of the sidewalk, my eyes remain on her giving a clear message of "I know what you're doing, and you don't have to". She is watching the ground as she talks, until she meets my eyes, remaining still twenty feet from her. Her face fills with terror and she lowers the phone near her chest. She holds it like she is texting and even lowers her face toward the phone, but her eyes remain on mine. I take my first steps directly toward her, and I would bet she has never felt (or looked) this uncomfortable in her life. I've nearly approached her, and I notice how much her beautiful figure does not fit in with the surroundings of busy professionals and rush-hour traffic, even as she nervously fidgets as I get closer.

"What's your name?"

She pretends to not know this was meant directly for her for about two seconds. "Me?" she asks knowing I see past the false confusion.

"You."

"My name is Isabel, but my friends call me Izzy."

"Your name fits you, Isabel. My name is Owen. Have you had coffee this morning?"

She blushes and her eyebrows can't help but furrow as she looks at me trying to gauge if I watched her make her choice outside the shop 5 minutes ago. "I haven't," she submits.

"Come with me to this corner shop, Isabel. Let's get to know each other for a few minutes before we leave for work."

I'm not sure what was going through her mind at this point, but I know she was overwhelmed. She opens her mouth taking a small breath to reply, but then instead of answering, she closed her mouth and nodded. She caught my smile when I received her reply and I gave a light touch to the skin of her upper back just above the black dress as I followed her toward the shop.