Certain weekends are indeed the times that try men's souls. Or dignities. Or sense of self-worth. Whatever - it's probably all the same thing. It's not like any of us know what a soul is made of anyway.
There's this woman, you see. (Don't most good stories begin that way?) Ever heard of the Mona Lisa smile? She's got it. It could mean anything, lurking there. It could be sarcasm, masked un-ease, just social graciousness, patience, actual happiness, or (what it comes off as,) bemusement. She absolutely radiates a sense of composure. She could give lessons to politicians in self-possession. She has bearing, she appears daring.
And you'll notice all this is just the social mask.
She's done a few years in the ME, (and completely incidentally, wears gauntlets of ethnic jewelery on her fingers and wrists, plus some scarves here and there, that give her an air of exoticism.) Her face is beautiful, but slightly angular, as though at some point her DNA disdained conventional beauty and at the last minute decided to aspire to be a work of art instead.
And you'll notice these are just externals.
She works as a photographer, and takes the sorts of pictures you see in news magazines, of Egyptian fathers sobbing outside the hospital, or Israeli soldiers lying in the street. Or women at a festival, framed in strung-up lights, their eyes shining.
But more recently she's been working on a media project to help ease one of the American public's latest phobias. The website is fantastically informative, as it traces how a few donors fund a larger pool of think tanks who employ a number of talking heads and media darlings to whip the American public into a frothy, misinformed mess.
And you'll notice those are just her jobs.
And why do I know only about her jobs and jewelry and smile? Because she doesn't have the time to talk to me - or doesn't care to, which is the same thing, really. Hey - life is full of disappointments.
I thought I could be charming and funny or clever in messages, and sooner or later she'd agree to spend an hour or two with me, over the course of which she would naturally fall spell to the conversation of a tall, fit, reasonably well-dressed and well-spoken man who makes insightful observations on literature, history, and world-events at a rate of approx 1 devastating insight per 90 seconds.
That is not what happened.
The very first time I met her was at a party. She could only stay a short time before she went off to attend another party, and I drew her a map. I could have sworn that during those few minutes alone I was funny and flirty enough to make an impression, but it's just possible that the vodka has messed with my sense of how charming I was being. There's a first time for everything.
A vacation came and went, and some weeks later I contacted her. I've always thought that my role in the world of single-dom was to communicate that she's very interesting, and allow opportunity for reciprocation. So I flirted - I made quite clear that I was interested. And the conversation went well enough, then she had to take a phone call, and never came back. I sent her a couple more messages, which went without reply.
Now, you'd think I'd take the hint, right? And I did. She's not interested, or she's already sniffed out your raging insecurities, or something you said annoyed her. Either way, no use pressing further.
One of my greatest fears is being the person who pushes their presence undesired upon others. So when no response came, I sadly admitted to myself that engaging in conversation with me was evidently lower on her to-do list than, well, anything else which she was doing. But hey - life is full of disappointments, isn't it?
In the meantime, life continued apace. Jujitsu, Salsa, Krav Maga, repeat. Even had a couple of dates.
But how little it takes to rekindle hope - a couple of weeks later a message came - it said she had "Just got back into town!" Ahh - from where I had no idea, but this could explain the lack of response, no? I mean . . . not really. The internet exists in most places, but . . . she's an extremely focused person - maybe when she's out working she focuses exclusively on the job?
Thus, the half-excuse was accompanied by an invitation to a film and a talk. She "Just wanted to let you know I'm doing this on Saturday, feel free to drop by if you're interested." She would be on stage, discussing some events she had been been witness to, doing a Q&A with the crowd. She probably sent this notice to everyone, right? Sure, probably. But maybe not.
I wrote back, and we exchanged minimal banter, and perhaps the minimalness of the banter should have given me a clue, but remember that thing about hope springing eternal? Well, what's the difference between hope and wishful thinking? Is there one?
So I went to said talk. Would it be strange to admit I thought about what to wear? Probably not - who doesn't? I hoped to make an impression - and who doesn't?
I couldn't make the first showing of the film, so I showed up for the Q&A and stayed for the second showing. It was informative and interesting - it's the sort of thing I would go to in any case, even if it wasn't featuring a goddess on earth. Her self-command and sense of gravitas and composure was immense. She was intelligent and worldly-wise to a degree rarely seen. She could sit in a chair at the side of the stage and somehow command the whole room. I started wondering what my parents would think of her.
I asked questions - good solid insightful questions. On her way out (I had hoped she'd stay for the second showing,) we talked briefly. She said "let's have coffee sometime." I felt shyness creeping up my legs as she stood in front of me. I wasn't nearly as eloquent now that she was standing in front of me. But it didn't matter - I'd been granted an audience - or at least hope of one. An audition, if you will. We would "have coffee" one of these days, apparently. I wasn't on cloud 9 - but 8.5 would be a fair estimate. As I watched the film I thought of things we could talk about.
I sent her a couple of messages over the next week - the lack of response would have been telling - maybe should have been telling - but she'd said we should have coffee sometime, hadn't she? Which is surely the one thing you NEVER say to a person you wished to be rid of . . . amirite? So . . . surely she is, once again busy?
You have to understand, if there's one thing this woman exudes, (besides confidence and beauty,) it's a sense of purpose. She has deadlines and places to be and compassion for the suffering and TED-talks and photo-journalistic assignments for acronymic associations like the AP and panel discussions and progressive projects, and she does all of them (as far as I can tell,) really well - and all while wearing loads of interesting jewelry.
So wasn't it possible that amidst all that purpose-driven living she had a hard time finding time for a personal life? Could be. Might be. Might not be. Hopefully once we talked I would know which was the case.
When Friday rolled around, I remembered that there was an improv group performing that night, and so I dropped her a line. She responded immediately. She knew them - she was planning on coming tonight anyway, so "that'd be great". Ominously, the line "save me a seat?" got no response.
I ducked out of Salsa class a little early. She wasn't there yet, so I paid for her entrance. I'd heard discussions, and an ex-girlfriend had commented to me once how my friend had sunk his chance with her friend because he didn't pop for the taxi, which wasn't a monetary thing so much as a reliable way to indicate romantic interest via a minor display of chivalry. And what's my job here? To indicate interest and give opportunity for reciprocation.
She showed up with two other guys in tow - friends of hers. She thanked me for paying - I said I hadn't known she was coming with friends. We laughed. I had saved the seat next to me. She sat one further down, which put her friend between us. I began to see . . . she had said she was coming tonight anyway. It's odd how you can put a different gloss on words, depending on what you think the prevailing sentiment is. I began to wonder if I was that weird hanger-on guy who every woman sooner or later experiences in their life.
The improv show was a bit of a bust. Not bad by any means, but I had seen them before and they had been better. I decided to give it one last shot. As we were packing to go I asked if they were planning to go get drinks, and she said yes, and off we went.
But we paused at the door, in the crowd dallying around and smoking on the landing, and she fell into conversation with another person there, and then the conversation lagged a beat, and she introduced her other friend standing there, and then turned her outstretched hand toward me and said, "And this is . . . " (beat 1 beat 2) . . . she leaned forward and put her hand on my arm - "Rich, right?"
"Rich? Are you rich?" I asked. "I'm not rich. Yet. Probably never will be."
"Oh, Matt? Right?" She laughed. "Sorry." She turned to her friend to introduce me, but the conversation had moved on.
And I realized I was now the proud owner of a new cliche - the girl I had been crushing on for months didn't even know my name. I had wondered for weeks whether I'd annoyed her or charmed her, and in fact I'd done neither. I hadn't even attracted her attention sufficient that my name registered in her mind. My own irrelevance in all its magnificence towered above me and laughed a charming light little laugh. It was pleasing, in a way, to be reminded so sharply of the differences in how we each experience the world. What one of us looks past is where another hinges the world.
I excused myself (metro closing and sleep and such) and went home. I hope she wasn't bothered by her mistake, or thought that I was too bothered by it. I was of course, but not very. The joy of chancing on an epiphany outweighed the assault on the ego such that I was overall pleased more than hurt.
And should she ever happen to read this, I can only say this; Miss, I'm as enchanted as ever. The smile that plays around your eyes betrays a thousand thoughts left unspoken, which I wish to hear. Should you find the time to remember my name, you know how to find me.
