by Annee Nymas
My friends showed no pity. How hard is it to say 'hi'? If you can't do it, don't do it. There is no 'try'… Etc. I began to wonder myself if I had faltered for a reason. Maybe I didn't find him attractive after all? Maybe the Universe was fixing a mistaken idea? Maybe my instincts were telling me there was something wrong with him… ? He is quiet, after all. Perhaps a friendly drink down the pub would lead to my murder and defacement? They never did officially catch Jack the Ripper…
So be it, then. If the Universe has decided to have him remain a mystery, a mystery he will remain. I took a nap that afternoon, although I barely slipped out of consciousness. They say the first stages of sleep awaken our creativity and help us to view problems in different ways. I was suddenly transported back two decades to a time when I used to struggle to talk to boys I fancied all the time, in the playground, especially when it came to finding out if they liked me. But there was always one thing a young teen could rely on - one of their friends would be more than willing to rush along the embarrassment by carrying a badly written note to the admired with the words "My friend fancies you and she asked me to give you this". I pulled out my old stationery box and found the least offensive set - Monet's Poppy Field (it could have been far worse: impressionist paintings of mothers and children? Nondescript flower drawings? Or toddlers dressed and posed as adult lovers - somewhat disturbingly?!) and I wrote (having first practiced on the iPad's Notes) a version of the previously rehearsed script, with what I hoped would be just enough clarity, suggestiveness and humour as to make it very clear I found him attractive, was NOT directly asking him out, as such, but would be happy enough to do anything that might catch his interest. It was far from my finest work, even if I did waft the sealed envelope briefly through a perfume mist. But if I over-thought it as much as I had done the verbal version, it would never be done by morning, potentially my last chance of the academic year to see him. And, not having a friend to embarrass me, I would have to do it myself…
As he approached that morning, in his far more attractive pale garb, we were caught on a narrow stretch of road, surrounded by shoving students on one side and impatient vehicles to the other. I would have to be quick, which was fine by me. He approached, so close that I was suddenly aware of the frown lines on his face, and couldn't help comparing him with Gabriel Byrne, on whom I'd had quite a large crush for a while (and still would). He drew yet nearer and I almost felt myself failing again as he stepped down from the curb to make room for me and those students forcing past me to the other side. If I didn't do it now, today, I must tear up the card and never think on this again. It was now or, truly, never.
"Excuse me," I heard myself say, "I know you have a train to catch. I just wanted to give you this." I slipped the card from the side pocket of my long-life shopping bag, where I had placed it for ease and convenience, thrust it into his hands and prepared to sprint. I achieved two new words from him: "Thank you very much," he mumbled through what might have developed into a smile but still looked like a grimace of unease. I kept walking, refusing to look back or to feel anything - shame, excitement, nerves - until I reached work.
I then had a rather interesting day of retelling the event as an anecdote, as if it were something that had happened to someone else, not me. When people told me that were impressed, thought I was far braver than they'd ever be, asked me what the note said and what I knew about him (was he married?), and so on, I simply brushed it all off. Until it dawned on me what I had done later that day. He now had my email address, as I had included it in the note. The note which was ridiculous, in truth, and retrospectively regrettable. What if he contacted me, asked me out? That was, after all, what I'd hoped for, wasn't it? But what if I'd made a mistake and led a man on for no good reason? What if he was older than my dad? I still couldn't place his age. What if he really was a psycho? Or worse, an Arsenal supporter? I began to realise I hadn't thought this through. I would usually date men I knew somehow, at least from their Internet biographies or a Google search. I didn't even know the Stranger's name!
Which led to the other side of the coin. What if he replied in anger? What if I had somehow offended him with my words? It wouldn't have been the first time a man had taken my meaning wrongly. What if he was married and told his wife, and she emailed me? Again, it wouldn't be the first time I'd had to deal with the other woman, but it's never fun.
And what if he decided not to contact me at all? Notes like those are akin to missing person cases on TV detective shows; after 48 hours you have to start assuming the worse. I know men like to keep women waiting as part of the game - too soon is too keen - but surely if a man is interested he wouldn't be so cruel as to take it beyond the weekend? Of course I'd be disappointed by his silence, but then how should I pass him on the next early morning… ? Potentially, next Thursday morning, in fact… ?
It has been 36 hours and no word. Destructive doubts have settled in wherever Impatience has made them room. I should never have asked him to smile – why should he have to smile at me? He was doubtless happily oblivious of my existence before. I should have just had the nerve to ask him out for a drink and face rejection… Perhaps I've learned all I ever will about the mysterious Stranger. Perhaps this is all the Universe ever wanted from me, and this has all been about the invisible impact on him, or for his immortalisation in my wordy and far less impressive form than Michelangelo’s ‘David’… ?
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
From the same author on Feedbooks
No Truths, Only Smiles (2007) When Joe Matthews is killed in an explosion at ProLab, his so-called friends appear to mourn his death. But when, two years later, the reality of his death is challenged, suspicions and motives begin to bubble to the surface.
If Joe has survived a potential murder attempt, his friends need to know, and as the need intensifies, so do the secrets and lies...
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Food for the mind