Dark Eyes

 I looked into her dark eyes, taking in her entire countenance, without ever dropping my eyes to do it. I had the nerve to tell her she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in forty years. She danced her shoes off, almost, right there in the hallway. Surely we were noticed by someone? It was a moment to be shared by an entire world, and we clearly had that moment between us.

Us! Us! Us!

Taking in my compliment completely, smiling all the while, with a heartfelt smile, her dance included all of her, head to toe, as she held my gaze with those delighted, dark eyes. It was a tremendous moment that seemed to take a lifetime to transpire. At least I was honest with her. I was not exaggerating. I told that woman the truth about how I see her.

I make it a habit with women.

If they’re pretty, I tell them so.

It’s not often someone like her comes along. I had to make the most of it. She told me about the boyfriend and the kids, and did I recall what she told me? Well, yes. I told her I’m a gentleman, and am very good at keeping my hands to myself, as she must have noticed. I can recall girls I’ve known a lifetime ago, who would think my claim to be preposterous.

But they all have husbands now, while I have no wife whomsoever.

I have the truth to remember, as I recall being shot down a few moments later. Oh, the dream girl gave me my moment of glory. The moment I needed today. She was that thoughtful. This one was generous. It’s obvious that she’s a people person. She naturally understands how to make another person feel special, not that I believe it was all an act.

She’s read some of my writing, I think.

At least it’s possible she did.

It’s been like this, with one overtone or another, ever since I was a kid. They try to help you feel good about yourself, but there’s always the boyfriend or husband in the wings, whether he really exists or not. I decided early on, to always believe the other man exists. I feel better that way, in the end. I’ve gotten so I construct a moment like that one, just for the drama of it.

It’s my way of watching a movie I enjoy.

I, myself, not only get to be the star of the movie, I get to pick my own leading lady, writing all of the script, except for her lines. I get to stage the whole show. Plus, I get to stay in one of those really nice places, where a really beautiful woman will consider working, for a situation like that one to be possible, where a lonely guy like me can perform.

Then, to make matters better, I get to writing it all down and publish it wherever I please to. There are no cameras. I look at another human being with my mind’s eye, and create this entire scene from within my own heart. I’m referring to a real, live person, you say? Nay! I’m referring to a figment of my imagination.

You’re free to believe either, as you please.

I enjoy a good romance as much as anyone. I feel like a million bucks. I made an interaction happen, along with a consenting partner, in the hallway of where I live, where she works. I treated an adult human being with as much respect as I’d ask from anyone, myself. Who cares whether it happened in reality or in my mind? I’m not worried about it.

I went over to my therapy appointment today, and said something like all this to my therapist. I don’t remember exactly. I’m a guy who tells stories, in case you’re wondering. My therapist is understanding and helpful. I miss her whenever she’s away. Recently, she went across the pond. I like to believe she went there because she reads a lot of Hemingway.

I imagine a lot of things.

Psychosis is for those who cannot handle medication.

I made arrangements with my transportation to stop by the local, fast food after therapy. I’ve been in the mood for some curbside food, ever since last night. The driver acquiesced, and I bought some really tasty fast food. You would have thought I was eating a sirloin steak, and still had the teeth to eat it with, when I finally got to sit down with that food.

But that’s not the way it happened from the get go. The driver needed to be in motion most of the time she was out with the van, and who am I to argue. She wouldn’t allow me to sit down with my food, and when I had problems it amounted to my problem, not her’s. Oh, and would I be certain to know we won’t be doing that very often.

Workaholic is what that driver is.

I wanted to drink some of the shake in the van, and when I got the cup, there was some reason I had to hold the cup between my knees. I think it was the seat belt I wanted to ignore. Well, you know what happened. The cup wouldn’t hold up well between my knees, at least, not altogether. I got the shake up in one had before I noticed anything wrong.

There sat milkshake man with multiplying globs of milkshake all over his blue jeans and more were on the way, unstoppably, to decorate milkshake man’s best shirt, just as inexorably. The blue jeans were expendable, but that shirt? There was no way to pass the partially broken cup forward, returning it to the driver, since she was elbow deep in traffic.

She has just enough education to have her own ideas, anyway.

Milkshake man proceeded into the building, at home, like a clown.

Fortunately, the cup had not lost all it’s soundness.

The driver had a plastic bag in the van for such emergencies as this one. The receptionist at home only smiled and asked what I had done. It was like one, final moment of glory, two in one day, for me to tell her, and a third to tell you. I’d write an email to my therapist about i, but then, I wouldn’t get to catch her eye when I tell the tale, if I did that.

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About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
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