As a child, I was crushed and broken, although I mended myself time and time again. I was and am a stubborn creature, built for some greater promise than that which my parents handed to me at birth. I am a wandering soul, questing for meaning in a world that gives me none.
During this quest, I have met many beautiful and arrogant people. These high beings do not deign to commune with me, but I stare at them, wishing I could have the courage to be arrogant. My inner beauty does not reflect on the outside, and I am lost in a miserable world of self-doubt and wishfulness.
Dreaming once, I met a man. He was beautiful and his soul was innately arrogant. It wasn't a conscious haughtiness, but something he exuded from deep within. It was the sense of a man so secure within himself that he could do nothing to deter his own destiny. I watched him like a psychotic fan, obsessed with learning his secrets, for I knew in my downtrodden heart that he could never find me attractive.
Then his eyes turned to me, assessing and curious. I blanched, ready to run from the room, wishing to fade into the wooden floor. He had beautiful eyes; pure intensity framed by ink-dark lashes. They stopped me from running, rooted my feet to the spot as he approached.
Dwarfed by his size, although I am not a small woman, I held my ground as if I had a weapon with which to fight his arrogance.
He said, "Hello."
I opened my mouth and, to my amazement, answered him. "Hello."
"I've heard that you're a writer," he went on, sliding into the chair next to mine.
"Yes," I answered, wishing I could think of sentence that contained more than one word.
His smile illuminated his face, and I melted in the heat of it. "I write, too," he said, as if he were truly a shy man. He looked down at his hands and then glanced back up at my face. "But I'm not very good at it."
And, finally, I thought of something to say. "It isn't the writing that has to be wonderful. It's the story. A good story can make a reader forget about the way it's written, as long as it's readable." I hadn't even taken the time to pick each word, merely blurting it out as if I had a right to talk.
He laughed, and the sound echoed into the spaces left bare so long ago when my passion had gone. "I'd like to read your stories," he said. "I've heard that they're pretty good."
"I didn't know people were discussing me behind my back," I blurted out for some reason. It was the wrong way to say it, considering his comment was praising, but I was nervous.
Forgiveness was in his voice, as if he understood my nervousness. "You put your writing out where other people could read it. Of course they discuss it."
I nodded, embarrassed, and retreated into single word sentences again. "Okay." My current effort was on the table in front of me, an erotic tale about beautiful people. The subject matter disconcerted me in my present circumstances, but there was nothing else to do but hand it to him.
The tips of his fingers brushed mine as he took the tablet. I'd been writing long-hand in an effort to find a new atmosphere, new inspiration at a place I rarely frequented. He leaned back in his chair to read, crossing one ankle over his knee.
I couldn't watch. It was far too uncomfortable, so I glanced around the room at the other patrons of the small bar. It was located down the street from my home. During the day there were few people there. In one corner a young couple sat engaged in what must have been fascinating conversation, for they stared into each other's eyes without looking away. I smiled at them and moved on. At the end of the bar a lone woman sat. Her eyes were heavily shadowed with make-up, and she wore her face with all the appearance of a coat of armor. She looked bored, a crack in her steel face revealing an internal emptiness.
A sound from the man reading my story turned my eyes back to him. He turned the page, shifting in his chair. His shift had been one of discomfort, and it drew my eyes to the cause. The story I was writing about the physical love of beautiful people had aroused him. I looked away, wishing I had chosen another topic. It wasn't fair to arouse him without a chance of completion for him.
The bartender grinned at me when I looked up. It was a knowing look, and he nodded to the reading man for emphasis. I blushed. Had he been reading my work upside-down while I was writing? Did he understand what kind of a story this was? I wanted to defend myself, but looked down instead.
I felt naked, my work and myself on display. Expecting humiliation or worse, I waited. Noise intruded into my thoughts. A pinball machine being worked over by a man in jeans and a ratty tee-shirt. The laughter of a sit-com on the television above the bar. And still, when the man beside me turned the page, it sounded like a huge echoing reprimand. I looked at him through lowered lashes, trying to hide my curiosity.
The tablet had been pulled over his lap, probably to conceal his arousal from me. A touch of pity made me sigh. If he'd been a woman he wouldn't have to hide it. Finally, I glanced at his face. His eyes, which had been a study in intensity to begin with, were now on fire. Darting across the page, they flickered with heat. His jaw was tensed, emotionally charged. He couldn't hide his reaction. I was written as clear as could be in his expression.
I should have been pleased that my words could affect him as my physical person could not, but I wanted to grab the tablet from him and run home. What that would have accomplished was beyond me, so I forced myself to await the outcome. He was almost finished, anyway. Soon, he could embarrass me and I could retreat with a confirmation of my personal disgust.
He looked up, meeting my eyes, gluing me to my chair. "My God," he said, harsh passion in his tone. "All that wrapped up in your head. What a wonder."
I couldn't look away. I couldn't do anything but stare into the furnace of his eyes. Was he going to continue by saying something about plain packages having surprising contents? Was he going to mention his need to find his girlfriend? Was he looking at me the way I thought he was looking at me?
Long, dark lashes descended over his eyes and he glanced up at the bartender. A frown creased his brow, and he closed the tablet. "Let's go somewhere else," he said.
It was a mark of his arrogance that he never considered I'd refuse. He took my hand and lead me out of the bar into the fresh summer air of a rainy day. "Where?" I asked. Every nerve ending was singing now. No rejection, not yet, but I couldn't believe he would want what I thought I saw in his eyes.
Pausing outside the building beneath an overhanging awning, he turned to face me. "It's up to you," he said. "I live around the corner."
The look on my face must have given me away, because he began to smile. "It's all right, you know. I'd like to talk about this story, and I didn't want to do it in front of that pervert bartender. I have a coffee pot, some coffee, and I might even have a cookie or two to munch on if you want."
