There was something quite different about it this time. There was no glamour, no pining, no nostalgia, just him. And he was beautiful, she thought, in a way at least. He was tall, just as tall as before, but broader, and older. His eyes were sunken in a little bit, and his cheeks protruded a little bit more than she remembered. His eyebrows slanted into angry, determined points upon his brow. He commandeered his space, but with less finesse than she thought she remembered before. And his eyes, they were no longer probing, just flat as they flicked around the room like lost spotlights.
She tried to think of herself, how did SHE look, how did SHE seem to him. Mature she hoped, and beautiful maybe. and LARGE. She hoped she seemed LARGE. Not small, not demure, not forgettable. It stung a little to be imperfect, it stung a lot more to be imperfect while someone else is watching.
He was looking at her. Her mind felt like a children's ride in Disney World with the derpy music and the plastic moving figures who waved and smiled as the mini cart hauled itself around the tracks. Did he still love her? Did he even like her?
She was tired of reliving the breakup and the relationship and the past. Could it be so hard to view each other without the critical lenses of the past and their former selves?
~
If I met you today, what would I think of you, and what would you think of me? It tickles me, it tickles my fancy to imagine such a thing. I used to take solace in knowing that you and I would probably be just another face in a room if we met today. Or even less.
If I met you at a bar...
You would be the one at the counter, dressed too bright, ordering too many drinks. Droopy eyes and a loud voice.
On a normal day, I would be the girl at the door, or near the bathroom, or by the single chaise lounge they have. Probably holding somebody up, with a lime and a glass of water in my hands, cooing coaxingly "do you need to throw up?" "Do you want to go home?" "Are you okay right now?"
If you were lucky, maybe we would meet on a night where I was gregarious. But gregarious by my standards would still be quiet by yours. I would be one of the girls standing up on the bar, dancing with my friends, talking to strangers, but never enough to give out my number. Maybe I would be the short girl standing next to you at the bar trying to order a round. I would probably press my hands into your forearm and shout into your ear "CAN YOU DO ME A FAVOR AND ORDER 5 TEQUILA SHOTS AND A BEER FOR ME PLEASE?!" You, being gallant (and also obnoxiously taking up too much space at the bar) would nod okay and immediately catch the attention of the bartender. Satisfied, I would tug your sleeve again, and hand you my credit card, trusting that a flashy spender such as yourself would be above petty theft from a poor college girl.
When the drinks would arrive, you would hand them to me one by one and I would pass them to my drunk friends who would gulp them down immediately as though intoxication is a precious and fleeting sensation that could terminate at any given moment. We would be left with two shot glasses, and a beer sweating slightly on the counter. I would hand one shot to you in thanks and follow the ritual clink-one-at-your-partners-glass-clink-two-on-the-counter-GO. Hesitant, I would cheat and watch you go first, observing the smile lines that would form like a sunburst around your eyes when you wince. Then, accepting the terrible price of intoxication, I would hold my breath and gulp but my eyes would still water and I'd have chase the bile back down my throat with some beer. I would think to offer you a sip, but my friends would be towing me away from the bar as soon as my empty shot glass touched the counter.
Soon I would lose track of how many brightly colored liquids I've sipped, spilled, downed, shared, stepped in. The bar would announce their last 5 minutes and the people around would begin to disregard the lack of space in their mad dash to reach the bathroom, bar or dancefloor. Lights would spin beyond my closed eyes, making the music seem loud, too loud, and the air seem wet, too wet. I would push my way outside to stand among the smokers alone. You would probably be pacing the street, on the phone. I would feel a kind of kinship to you since we would be the only two non-cigarette wielding souls on the street. The stench of the smoke would still seem preferable to the rising rank of body odor wafting from inside the doors so we would just wait outside.
Small talk would begin to flow and I would examine your too-shiny belt buckle and the sunken hollows of your cheeks while I learned about your hometown, your friends, and how your night was going. You would ask me if I had plans after this and I would shake my head. Then there would be silence as you would attempt to gauge my reaction and if I would be worth another conversation. I would attempt to gauge your intents and if you rated appropriately low on the creepy-scale. Then the music would stop and people would begin to stream from the bar doors into the sidewalk and street. Your friends would swarm you immediately and I would step away to find mine.
Maybe we would catch a glimpse of each other in the crowd a few times. With each time, your belt buckle would seem less and less ostentatious and the smile lines mapping your temples would become increasingly attractive We would make eye contact briefly but neither of us would make an attempt to reach the other. Stalemate.
Finally, as my friends would start to pile into a cab, I would look back and catch your eye one more time. This time it would be longer, as I would attempt to prod your conscience with my mind. You, as though responding to my telepathy, would pause your conversation and wave your phone at me purposefully. I would nod ambivalently and type your number into my phone at your dictation, promising to call so you could have my number too. Then I would climb into the cab feeling like a uber desirable badass and we would part.
Later that night, amidst the heavy breathing of my sleeping friends, I would realize that I hadn't saved your number on my phone. Sleepy and dazed, I would resolve to look you up on facebook in the morning. You of the long lean limbs and unchecked laugh. Your name was....Wait, what was your name?
Soon I would lose track of how many brightly colored liquids I've sipped, spilled, downed, shared, stepped in. The bar would announce their last 5 minutes and the people around would begin to disregard the lack of space in their mad dash to reach the bathroom, bar or dancefloor. Lights would spin beyond my closed eyes, making the music seem loud, too loud, and the air seem wet, too wet. I would push my way outside to stand among the smokers alone. You would probably be pacing the street, on the phone. I would feel a kind of kinship to you since we would be the only two non-cigarette wielding souls on the street. The stench of the smoke would still seem preferable to the rising rank of body odor wafting from inside the doors so we would just wait outside.
Small talk would begin to flow and I would examine your too-shiny belt buckle and the sunken hollows of your cheeks while I learned about your hometown, your friends, and how your night was going. You would ask me if I had plans after this and I would shake my head. Then there would be silence as you would attempt to gauge my reaction and if I would be worth another conversation. I would attempt to gauge your intents and if you rated appropriately low on the creepy-scale. Then the music would stop and people would begin to stream from the bar doors into the sidewalk and street. Your friends would swarm you immediately and I would step away to find mine.
Maybe we would catch a glimpse of each other in the crowd a few times. With each time, your belt buckle would seem less and less ostentatious and the smile lines mapping your temples would become increasingly attractive We would make eye contact briefly but neither of us would make an attempt to reach the other. Stalemate.
Finally, as my friends would start to pile into a cab, I would look back and catch your eye one more time. This time it would be longer, as I would attempt to prod your conscience with my mind. You, as though responding to my telepathy, would pause your conversation and wave your phone at me purposefully. I would nod ambivalently and type your number into my phone at your dictation, promising to call so you could have my number too. Then I would climb into the cab feeling like a uber desirable badass and we would part.
Later that night, amidst the heavy breathing of my sleeping friends, I would realize that I hadn't saved your number on my phone. Sleepy and dazed, I would resolve to look you up on facebook in the morning. You of the long lean limbs and unchecked laugh. Your name was....Wait, what was your name?
