I’m not saying that this woman is the "One". I’m not saying that she isn’t either. It’s just that I feel a strange, perhaps lustful desire for her. Her charm is that she appears both strong and personable. At first glance, she looks like management material in her designer eyewear
and pulled back hair. By the way she continually twirls a ring around her finger, idling is not one of her strong points. She gives off a take charge, no fuss image with a self assured poise. After a more in depth look, one can easily see that the hard lines is a mirage for a girl in a pair of jogging pants
lounging around on a lazy Sunday morning enjoying the softness of her pillow and the warmth of the sun while listening to her favorite tunes. A sudden feeling of discouragement rushes through me, causing me to check for a wedding band
. This is of vital importance and utmost necessary if the fantasy is to continue and remain plausible. Unable to see past the two siblings feuding not long ago, now dancing about, I raise my attention to find management looking right at me. It was one of those situations when a stare becomes a form of telepathic communication, where the victim feels the invasion and turns to find the cause. In this case, I am the cause. Caught off guard, my face defaults to a child’s "Oops, I’ve been a bad boy" expression. She does not look away and I fear that I may be in trouble. Gathering my senses I wield a poker face, then a look of innocence, followed by an "I didn’t do it" to complete the sequence.She remains expressionless. The only other thing left for me to do is to give her my best smile. To my surprise, she smiles back. And I am put on the spot to interpret the gesture. I wanted it to be suggestive to something more promising, but if I believed that, I would be lying to myself. Realistically, it could be nothing more than a courtesy smile, just meaningless niceness. No, not from her, I couldn’t see her bothering with pointless pleasantries, so I waited. Just as she turns away, she gives me one last look. And I catch the smirk behind those lips. She approves or at least finds me amusing. Regardless, I escape with my ego intact.
“Check, one two, can we have the brass section run through sound check.”
The heat is at last becoming bearable as the evening's breeze slowly begins to infiltrate the grounds. Tonight’s talents are preparing to go on stage. These are the artists of twilight. Performing only under diffused lights
, they play homage to the minor tones underlying the voice of jazz
. Eyes closed to the audience, concentrating only on the music so that every note is as vital as every breath, the magic they stew is something worth treasuring.I absentmindedly flip the empty pop can into the garbage. My attention is in the direction of the vendors. I am curious to see if I can spot Liz. It turns out she is in plain view standing on recently manicured grass trying on a pink cowboy hat
with an unlit cigarette jetting out between her fingers. The center of attention until she needs to be found, then she is as inconspicuous as an ant.Posing in front of her is a victim of modern day advertising, a muscular man in full body athletic attire with matching runners. He is holding a light, a flame out for her. She tilts her head and sucks back on the cigarette, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth. He is not her type, especially with his bald head and ample facial hair. Hair on his face does not offset the lack of hair on his scalp. Jocks never manage to keep her entertained. They pay too much attention to their own bodies and not enough on hers. I try waving my arm to get her attention.
[To be continued...]
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