The Contradiction of Solitude(2)

His personality was clearly infectious. Easy. Deceptive. He flirted readily and often with the middle-aged waitress who made every excuse to check on him throughout his meal.

Slight touches. Loud laughter. Words coated in sugar and warmth.

He was irresistible. Fascinating.

Mine.

I tapped my fingers on the table to music only I could hear.

Then Dancing Green Eyes was on his feet, pushing his arms through the sleeves of his coat. Tattered. Stained. It had seen better days. He dressed without care of his appearance. Not a priority for the man with the fake smile.

His friend said something that made him laugh again, and this time I found myself laughing too.

Tangling myself in his fa?ade.

The sound of my rusty and ill-used chuckle caught his attention. He looked at me, seeing me for the first time even though we had sat across from each other for months now. It was a moment unlike any other.

Buzz…

It was the one I had been waiting for.

Depended on.

Desperately needed.

His lips quirked as he looked at me, and I knew he liked what he saw.

Most men did.

It was easy to be attracted to me.

With my long, dark hair and equally dark eyes, I was pretty, just on the verge of beautiful. My lips were full and my face symmetrical. I had a smattering of freckles over my straight nose that I had been told gave my appearance just a touch of innocence.

I laughed harder.

I knew what Dancing Green Eyes was thinking when he looked at me.

His eyes flickered down to the book on the edge of the table. He walked toward me, and I found that my heart started beating in overtime.

This. This. This.

Now. Now. Now.

He put his finger on the ragged cover, holding it down with firmness.

“Interesting book choice,” he said, his smile ever present. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes telling their lies.

I slid my worn copy of Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust out from beneath his finger and nodded, looking up at him through my lashes.

We stared at each other for a time, the air electric between us. I almost forgot to breathe.

Stay…

“Come on, Elian, we’ve got to get back to the shop before George has our heads,” his friend said, his voice harsh and unwelcome in our comfortable silence.

Elian blinked, as though clawing his way to the surface. My head buzzed louder. Ever louder.

“See you around?” he posed the statement more as a question.

I nodded again, never giving him words. Holding them close to me for later.

Elian cocked his head and regarded me and my body started to tingle.

Buzz…

“Elian, seriously dude, we’ve got to go. You can eye f*ck the hot chick another time,” his friend said crudely, elbowing him rather viciously in the back.

Elian flushed in what I can only assume was embarrassment. I laughed again. I couldn’t help it. It was all just too perfect.

He gave me one more of his smiles, bestowing it like a gift, and then left.

My hands closed over my book as I watched him walk out the door.



I took my time walking back to my apartment.

Not home.

Just a place I slept.

I had only lived in the tiny, sleepy town of Brecken Forest, Virginia for four months. It was a quaint village of a place with a main street straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting with colonial features and polite neighbors

I chose Brecken Forest carefully. For reasons that were my own.

I walked up the steps of the two-story brick house where I rented the bottom floor. I waved to Mrs. Statham who lived upstairs. She was petite with stooped shoulders and grizzled white hair. She spent most of her time baking cookies. I hated the way it made the house smell like Christmas.

“I put some cookies outside your door,” the sweet old lady with the gnarled fingers and furtive smile said, sweeping steadily with the broom in her hand.

I looked at Mrs. Statham, the crazy old lady with cat hair on her clothes, and I wondered what places she had been and experiences she had had. What stories she had to tell.

I could have asked her about her life. I could have sat down with a cup of tea in hand, eating her snickerdoodles, and let her tell me about the secrets behind her grin.

But I didn’t.

Because I wanted to imagine her truth rather than hear it.

I didn’t need any more than that.

“Thanks, Mrs. Statham. I’ll bring the plate back when I’m finished,” I told her.

“And when you do, you can tell me about that new job of yours.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t wonder about how she had discovered this detail about me. She existed as any old woman without family nearby. Completely invested in strangers that weren’t in any way invested in her.

I walked inside, making sure to take a deep breath, pulling the sweet smell of baking into my lungs, feeling sick on it, before picking up the waiting sweets on my welcome mat.

I balanced the plate in one hand and closed the door with the other. I kicked off my shoes and headed into the narrow, galley style kitchen just off the living room.

I dumped the cookies I would never eat into the trash and placed the now empty plate in the sink. It wasn’t rude not to eat them. I didn’t indulge in false generosities.

I looked around the small, cramped room and felt no connection to the shabby furniture and random knick-knacks. None of it was mine. Every single piece belonged to someone else. Another family.