Oddity

“But I love you,” he whispered, gazing at the face staring back at him. There was a solid wall between him and the gray-eyed woman and if he did anything to attempt to break it, she too would fall apart into many angular pieces. Not that she would be missed, the main matter of concern was that this woman was intruding.

He was not mad of course, he knew that she was him and he was her but only in the way one knows that the earth revolves around the sun and not vice versa. The man did not think he would be able to press the point one way or the other very convincingly without involving the sciences. Simple men do not argue with the sciences, he insisted emphatically, at least not when the masses held on to their views as strongly as they did. It is best to step aside and smile in a semblance of indifference.

“But I love you,” he repeated the words, this time with more emphasis on the word ‘you’. There was little more he could tell her than these few measly words. The Other One, in his mind that is what he called her. Any shred of uncertainty was beyond his comprehension when it came to assessing how similar she was to himself. How out of place.

That is how he knew that he ought to carry on with the absurd charade of feigned emotions, to let her know bluntly for there was little else in his repertoire of tools when it involved the fairer sex. He joined this phrases together when they seemed to fit from little cut outs from billboards and newspaper ads. When he tried to visualize them in his mind he could see them slipping out of glossy pouting lips. They shimmered like a convertible. The words felt wrong coming from his wallowing throat however, they must be adjusted first.

He was the sort of gentleman who would slouch, whose sleeves were stained with ink, and whose folders were chronologically arranged. He found himself absurd but was partial to emulating the conduct of a proper gentleman, and a gentleman ought to say such trifles with ease if he is to please a lady. It was therefore a troublesome case for him since his own role and the target in question were of a dubious standing. How was he to know who was perusing who when the Other showed little want of affection?

She would go on about her misery with the sort of quiet adoration one shows for a bespectacled ill-adjusted niece. He enjoyed creating such similes, anthropomorphisms of emotions. The irony of it amused him, that he understood each equally well. That is to say, very little to not at all. Yet the archetypes were the way he could cope, by surrounding himself with a world akin to fantasy and fiction, where every stranger was a character with a part to play and all were orchestrating a climax of sorts. Either the peak of human tragedy, a great romance, or, as he suspected, a great farce.

She would not hear any of his trifles, to his great dismay. He remembered very little of that tell-tale day apart from the climax, the convulsions that went through his body when she said: “I’m sorry, but no.” She said the words in a tone that seemed almost insulted, not disgusted, but insulted. As if he had dared to do something unspeakable, and may dare to do it again if not suppressed. He had not seen her since, possibly for the better, though she left a dull ache.

He remembered walking past the spot a few weeks later but the bench were they sat then had been removed for whatever reason. Perhaps it needed a new coat of paint, his mind drifted. The man saw himself picking at it, chipping away the pieces as she spoke to him. He had been anxious then and his eyes would not meet hers unless it was unavoidable. He should return from these memories, he urged himself, or else they would be distorted by too much thought.

It was 7:20 a.m. The bus would be coming soon and he had little time to prepare. He could hardly bring himself to move though, he stood transfixed, slouching by the mirror. When he looked up at those eyes they seemed so sad to him, so beautiful, this stranger of his. This woman never spoke willingly, she could only mimic.

“But I love you,” he said again, picking up the brush and combing a few thin strands to one side. The man stood naked before the mirror, scanning his pale body in a passive and curious way one looks at an undressed mannequin. He was thin enough, almost: there was something that must be done in regards to thighs, he ought not have them.

The red cloth was sprawled across the bathroom floor, it must have slipped off the cabinet, he mused, forcing a smile. There was little time left but he could afford to miss the first bus when a second would certainly arrive, such things must not be rushed. He carefully picked up the brush and swirled it in the rose coloured powder, dabbing at his cheeks with it. Then, the sticky black for the lashes. Sometimes he would wonder whether a woman would know how to get rid of the small clumps. Next came the sultry scarlet across his lips, the cheap jewellery, the bottled lacquer coating for his nails.

He could almost smile, delighted by how convincing he looked in his role. Not that anyone would know either way, there were many misfits about the neighbourhood, but he wanted to assure them that he was the cream of the crop. He wanted to impress them.

Ms. Randalls of 47 Cresentdale is a beautiful young woman, very bashful, very kind.

He would wait for this stranger at the cafe, just like he promised, and when the time is quite right he would tell him that he loves him and raise a child or two and work diligently until 5:30pm Monday to Friday. He would do as he is told.
The man ordered a caramel latte and sat down by the window, it was already dark. His anxiety began to grow as he watched the clock. How picturesque he thought himself, it were as if a movie scene was being played out, when a woman waited for her man to rescue her. He found such movies distasteful.