Monday, April 5, 2010

The Reject

One of my brief attempts at romanticism, written in one of those rare times that I have human emotions. Here for your perusal, O' invisible audience, read on.



She smelled of lavender. And musk. And all sorts of good things. As he looked at her, out of the corner of his eye, he felt his mind clouding with emotion. Try as he might, he couldn’t make himself think of anything other than her eyes, her lips, the way she fingered her hair whenever she was flustered or annoyed.
He had to talk with her, talk about work, and not get misunderstood. Well, that sounded simple enough. After all, she was just a girl, was she not? How nice that would have been, he felt. A purely platonic relationship. Too bad that was not going to be the case.
He forced himself to approach her, to get the matter over with, and go on with life, waiting till the time he would next get to talk to her. The nearer he got, the more his desire tried to overwhelm him. Finally, he got near enough for a confrontation to be unavoidable. He coughed gently, a discreet preemptive attention seeking tactic. She looked over, a slightly puzzled expression on her face, serving only to make her look all the more enchanting, and asked if he would like something for his cough. He sighed a mental sigh. Tactic #221 down the drain.
Unfazed, our brave protagonist asked her about the event she was covering, and how she proposed to go about it. She replied to the point, not even looking at him anymore. Still not admitting defeat, he proceeded to ask whether, um.. she would need any assistance or company, volunteering the information that he, as usual, was jobless, but highly willing to assist her in any way possible. She ruminates on this awhile, while he tries to absorb as much of her essence as the proximity allows him to. She replies that no, thank you, she does not need any help, however, her friend (swine for whom he had the keenest distaste, and would smite upon receipt of earliest opportunity, and moreover, a guy) needs help of a most exacting kind  that only he would be able to provide, and would he please do it? Out of common courtesy, and his abounding affection for her, he cannot refuse.
As he is leaving, no longer having the courage to ask her out, she calls him back. With a final mustering of the last dregs of self-containment, he is about to ask her, when she beseeches him to ‘set her up’ with the aforementioned friend. Again, he cannot refuse. Her joy comes before his own, and all that crap. For all of how clichéd it sounds, he can’t help but marvel how true it is.
And that is why, he sits alone in his room, cut away from all human contact, denying himself all pleasure and companionship, refusing to eat, to read, to sleep, refusing  to think of her, to stop thinking of her.
That is why there is an obese person sitting in unlaundered, smelly clothes, digging his nose, and writing this article.
There, there.

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