November 14, 2006
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the hero and heroine of this story i hesitate to describe in brute detail, because there is almost something wrong with the ideal of them, wrong because it was too correct, a caricature of human physiology that cannot exist purely because its existence brings a catatrophic contrast to the sheer imperfection of our own happy endings. she: fair, a smidge doll-like, a little the pretty side, nondescriptly delicate. he: typical athlete gone a little soft, but strangely statuesque, of inexplicable stateliness that contained undeniable wittiness and tragic humor. but together, they were perfection.
allow me to illustrate this point by describing the appearance of their unfortunate significant others -
his was marginally dark-skinned, tall, like he was (a perfect ratio, really), atheltic build; in all fairness, attractive. but compared to her? a walnut-skinned being of shifty slanty eyes, overly masculine features. and hers? lean, poised, placidly handsome and impeccably mannered. but compared to him...a garden gnome.
what awful luck that they were to meet that Tuesday evening sitting face-to-face in coach seats of the airtrain. if it is possible that each of us has a unique extrasensory perception that emanates the skin and surrounds us (a cellophane wrap of subconscious pheromonic attraction), that may have explained the beginnings of their recognization of one other.
on the right side of the coach seats, in midst of shameless PDA - a soft kiss, puppy-like nuzzling of her hair, faintly fragrant, a mere hint, only, usually drove him crazy. but his eyes for the first time shifted, just a little. it was imperceptible to any sane person, but they slid, like oil torn by loyalty to the engine and to gravity, giving in to a force none of us can honestly claim we understand. they slid until dangerously close to their target, violet depths that he had actually never experienced in the flesh, then common sense removed the autopilot and he kissed her again, almost urgently...
but it was enough so that she remembered-
there they had met, dark alley, vintage masks strangely insectoid until taken off to reveal two intellectual and spiritual physical equals, breaths steady, backs slightly arched, eyes half-closed but locked so that nothing could have budged the connection. they were not afraid. the pool left by street lamplight cast the evening into dark classic detective film hues, flat yellow and jet black.
but baby, baby, it didn't actually happen. there was no seedy hotel room. it's in your mind. my mind. her mind. but there was no seedy hotel room, it didn't happen-
what was the big deal, anyway? he hadn't actually done anything. the betrayal wasn't in what he had done.
the betrayal was in his eyes.
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