(Untitled): Part III
April 2, 2007The phone in my pocket buzzes to life. A text flashes across the screen: RUNNING LATE. SORRY. Oh, great, that explains everything. I signal the bartender for a fresh pint. Maybe she knows what’s coming and can’t decide what to wear. Ten bucks and my right nut says she’s even more gorgeous than she was the last time I saw her. That’s just usually how it works.
Outside the storms are really lighting up the sky, but the soulful yearnings of the guitarist are maintaining the tranquil mood on the inside. My hands dance between the black beauty in front of me and the black box resting peacefully in my pocket. The door opens — for the first time in nearly an hour — and in walks a dark figured cloaked under hefty rain gear. The form looks feminine, but I don’t recognize the rain coat or umbrella as Mary’s. When the figure reveals herself, my mouth falls and an audible gasp escapes me.
I’ve never believed much in love at first sight. It’s just that I find the word love to carry a far greater weight than a lone glance can capture. To love someone, you have to be okay with dealing with that person in all their range of glory — yes, that means also in their bad, annoying moments. Sure, maybe you can have a crush on someone right away, but I just don’t see how that moment can possibly tell you she’ll never rinse the peanut butter off her knife before leaving it in the sink for three days, or that she’ll always drink a little too much when you have people over because she’s afraid of coming over as quiet and uninteresting, or that she’ll snore in bed after she’s had pepperoni pizza. These are the things we deal with over the course of a relationship. I’ve never been able to see all this with a glance across the room. But maybe that’s my own shortcoming.
You know that scene in Casablanca where Ingrid Bergman stares wistfully off to the side of the camera? The shot where every heterosexual male on this planet can’t help but wish he was not only alive in the 40s, but that she was in actuality gazing at him? I can’t remember the context of the scene — she’s probably talking to that lucky S.O.B. Humphrey Bogart — but God, what a woman (and what a movie!). Analogies are always tricky, but that’s the look I got from the strange new woman at the door. Except, this one wasn’t in black and white — it was in living color.
Though I was only looking toward the newcomer because I anticipated it would be Mary, the intensity of my stare only amplified once I saw her face. Immediately, her gaze wandered around the bar and locked firmly into mine. Shaking the renegade water off her wavy blond hair, she gave me a coy smile. Her eyes, basked in the blue of a thousand emeralds, shot lasers through the hazy pub. Breaking our impasse, she walked toward my table and took the empty seat across the booth: Mary’s seat.
I offered her a drink; she declined. I offered her a smoke; she declined. I offered her my name; she accepted. Pleased to meet you, she said. The next words out of her mouth: do you believe in love at first sight? I sipped on my pint and gazed out the window. We’re on foreign ground, I thought. This beautiful woman — I don’t even know her name. Mary will be here any minute. She persisted, the weight of her stare penetrating deeply, softly: well, do you? I changed the subject for a moment. Are you meeting anyone? She quickly came back: I just moved into town, I don’t know a soul. Can’t I just sit and talk with you? Again she smiled. A current of electricity shot through my body. She’s on her way. Any minute. Tell me about yourself, she said. Powerless, I started in on my story. Where is she, I thought? I pleaded with myself. Be sensible. I shot my hand through my pocket, feeling something begin to slip away. The woman laughed, twirling her golden hair, hooked on my every word. Get out of her seat. I must wait. She’s coming. I know she is. She has to. But in the meantime, maybe I’ll have another pint. She said: you know, maybe I’ll take you up on that drink after all.
-end-
