Gap Girl
Gap Girl
March 20th , 1 p.m. You eased to the curb in your Escalade. How old are you? I thought. I stared at you. Through beautiful sunglasses you stared back.
You stepped out of the car - brown sandals, cream khakis, white shirt, black sunglasses. You looked like a model in a gap commercial. You stared at me. I avoided your gaze.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I responded.
Your friend smiled as she came around the corner and saw you. I would have smiled, too, were we friends. She was more lovely than you, but not nearly as beautiful.
You two fumbled for your seats. I could see you took pains to ensure you sat where you did - four feet away, facing me, leaning back invitingly. Your friend’s back was towards me. She had to translate for you the menu and the waitress’ words. Ahhh, a Spanish looking girl in Miami who speaks not a word of Spanish! Were we not destined for each other?
I stared at the old men playing chess next to you on your far side, but really I was more interested in your food. I was more interested in your hair, and above all, I was most interested in your sunglasses. You took them off for a minute, revealing eyes perfectly plain. Were your eyes beautiful I would not have loved you for it. Your eyes were small with shallow sockets. They made you look younger, about my age. You did well to hide them behind exquisite shades. This care for appearance did not go unnoticed.
If I took you out that night, on a dinner date followed by fun with our friends, and sex, I would have wanted you to leave your glasses off. Your eyes are pretty, in an imperfect way. And all attention is drawn towards your sleek nose and smooth cheekbones, anyways.
A man came by and seranaded you both in Spanish. Were I more suave or faster on my feet, I would have paid him to sing you a song, a simple song about love which neither one of us would have understood. He sang to your table and the two of you paid him. When he walked over to me, I payed him so as not to look cheap.
“His food looks really good,” you said to your friend about my plate. I sighed and stared at my greasy overcooked pig meat. I wished I could follow your scentece up with an interjection of my own. I messed around with my salad. It was the only part I of the meal liked. I wanted to offer you some of my appetizer, mostly just to talk to you, but also to get it off my plate. However, I didn’t. The worst ham and cheese of my life remained half-uneaten by meal’s end.
I listened to your conversation while staring at my food, the street, and occasionally you. It seemed the longer I waited the more you lost interest in me, the less pressing I became. You discussed the phonetics of talking-speed - how when we talk slowly we pronounce all of our vowels and consonants, but when we talk rapidly we start to drop them. You are an intellectual. You discussed your plans for the evening. I learned you were having a girls’-night in, involving the watching of Borat and the smoking of marijuana. You were now the master of my heart.
I wonder if I had talked to you, if I had gotten in, you would have put off girls night for me. Would you have let me take you out for my second to last night in the city? Would you have taken me out? Or better yet, would you invite me and my male travel-buddy to your girls’-night in? I know we would have instantly meshed. I know we would have drunk wine, and the night would have been beautiful in its impermanence. I would have remembered sights and sounds, but few smells, and hopefully many conversations.
It began to cool. I could not sit at my table forever. I had to leave strongly. I made a big motion getting up and bringing in my dirty dishes. Unfortunately, I dropped a fork in front of the enterance. After I dropped off my plates, I slipped back outside, pausing for a moment. I walked to my table next to yours and slowly grabbed my book. Did you see what I was reading? I walked a few steps back, to the water cooler, and poured myself a paper-cup of water. I drank it. I had another. By now you had gone inside, I assume to the toilet. I walked in front of your table, in front of your friend, and stopped to gaze at the middle-aged men playing chess for money. When they were done so were you; you came out, and I was leaving. I took a few steps towards you… and threw out my cup. It was done, and I walked away. It did not seem right, no, to walk with my back towards you, but you could never know how weak I was. Am. When I realized I had to turn around to get to my destination, I made sure I crossed a block over first.
March 20th , 1 p.m. You eased to the curb in your Escalade. How old are you? I thought. I stared at you. Through beautiful sunglasses you stared back.
You stepped out of the car - brown sandals, cream khakis, white shirt, black sunglasses. You looked like a model in a gap commercial. You stared at me. I avoided your gaze.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I responded.
Your friend smiled as she came around the corner and saw you. I would have smiled, too, were we friends. She was more lovely than you, but not nearly as beautiful.
You two fumbled for your seats. I could see you took pains to ensure you sat where you did - four feet away, facing me, leaning back invitingly. Your friend’s back was towards me. She had to translate for you the menu and the waitress’ words. Ahhh, a Spanish looking girl in Miami who speaks not a word of Spanish! Were we not destined for each other?
I stared at the old men playing chess next to you on your far side, but really I was more interested in your food. I was more interested in your hair, and above all, I was most interested in your sunglasses. You took them off for a minute, revealing eyes perfectly plain. Were your eyes beautiful I would not have loved you for it. Your eyes were small with shallow sockets. They made you look younger, about my age. You did well to hide them behind exquisite shades. This care for appearance did not go unnoticed.
If I took you out that night, on a dinner date followed by fun with our friends, and sex, I would have wanted you to leave your glasses off. Your eyes are pretty, in an imperfect way. And all attention is drawn towards your sleek nose and smooth cheekbones, anyways.
A man came by and seranaded you both in Spanish. Were I more suave or faster on my feet, I would have paid him to sing you a song, a simple song about love which neither one of us would have understood. He sang to your table and the two of you paid him. When he walked over to me, I payed him so as not to look cheap.
“His food looks really good,” you said to your friend about my plate. I sighed and stared at my greasy overcooked pig meat. I wished I could follow your scentece up with an interjection of my own. I messed around with my salad. It was the only part I of the meal liked. I wanted to offer you some of my appetizer, mostly just to talk to you, but also to get it off my plate. However, I didn’t. The worst ham and cheese of my life remained half-uneaten by meal’s end.
I listened to your conversation while staring at my food, the street, and occasionally you. It seemed the longer I waited the more you lost interest in me, the less pressing I became. You discussed the phonetics of talking-speed - how when we talk slowly we pronounce all of our vowels and consonants, but when we talk rapidly we start to drop them. You are an intellectual. You discussed your plans for the evening. I learned you were having a girls’-night in, involving the watching of Borat and the smoking of marijuana. You were now the master of my heart.
I wonder if I had talked to you, if I had gotten in, you would have put off girls night for me. Would you have let me take you out for my second to last night in the city? Would you have taken me out? Or better yet, would you invite me and my male travel-buddy to your girls’-night in? I know we would have instantly meshed. I know we would have drunk wine, and the night would have been beautiful in its impermanence. I would have remembered sights and sounds, but few smells, and hopefully many conversations.
It began to cool. I could not sit at my table forever. I had to leave strongly. I made a big motion getting up and bringing in my dirty dishes. Unfortunately, I dropped a fork in front of the enterance. After I dropped off my plates, I slipped back outside, pausing for a moment. I walked to my table next to yours and slowly grabbed my book. Did you see what I was reading? I walked a few steps back, to the water cooler, and poured myself a paper-cup of water. I drank it. I had another. By now you had gone inside, I assume to the toilet. I walked in front of your table, in front of your friend, and stopped to gaze at the middle-aged men playing chess for money. When they were done so were you; you came out, and I was leaving. I took a few steps towards you… and threw out my cup. It was done, and I walked away. It did not seem right, no, to walk with my back towards you, but you could never know how weak I was. Am. When I realized I had to turn around to get to my destination, I made sure I crossed a block over first.