He sways in silence, mesmerised by her conversation. I can’t hear her story in words, but I translate it as ‘gripping’ by the sickly sweet trance of his eyes. On his head rests a mythical puppet, placed there by mother infatuation, who moves the corners of the man’s mouth up a little, and then a lot, then a little again, before crescendoing into a raucous laugh. I’m sure that this punchline didn’t deserve such praise. She doesn’t, from the back, look like the naturally funny type. As he takes her in, his gaze could not be broken for love nor money. The love is right in front of me, and the money will come back around, he thinks, in an annoying, Paul McCartney kind of way. In fact, this man is swimming so deep in his companion’s eyes that it wouldn’t matter if the original, reincarnated line-up of The Beatles was standing right in front of him. The whole café could erupt, falling at the four legends’ feet, crying and screaming in wails of disbelief, sobbing through a disjointed melody of Love Me Do – and my besotted mate would miss it all entirely. The Beatles? John and George back from the dead? In this café? Yeah, alright. Just now? Good one. Yeah. That is a good one.
It feels nice to see a man so undividedly interested in a woman. I don’t mean in an objective way, obviously. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve traced the gross ogle of a male look, only to both land bang in the bullseye of an unbeknownst lady’s nipple, thigh, crotch or bum. I shoot a look up in an attempt to embarrass them but they don't notice me in the smugness of their latest nipple fix. Fair enough, I guess. Another day, another pervert.
With these two, though, there’s no crotch-spotting available. She sits, almost androgynously, in a baggy black jumper, half-leaning across the table that divides them. Over the past ten minutes, however, I’ve become sure that even if their table were to suddenly disappear, this man’s eye would not fall into perversion. The performance of his attention is so utterly convincing that even if her clothes were to disappear — and his, for that matter — this embryonic couple would sit starkly naked opposite each other and still stay innocently, eye-to-eye. Now I’m imagining them naked, which is a bit weird, a bit beautiful and a lot creepy. Fair enough, I guess. Another day, another pervert.
Witnessing the melting of a man by a woman’s mind makes me wonder when the last time was that I was seduced purely by somebody’s being. Male or female, for romance or friendship, in work or in leisure. Have I ever been? At the risk of sounding like I’m auditioning for the next season of Love is Blind, I don’t know if it’s possible. I may appear like I’m hopelessly devoted to words and concepts, but in my closet lies an insatiable attraction to the visually exciting, too. I wrote, a while ago, that “fun is, by far, my favourite mystery of life” and I’d like to award the mystery of attraction as a close second. Of course, we can trace some desires back to outside influences and subliminal messaging, but there are other things in life that we’re drawn to without the slightest piece of rhyme or reason – and I think it’s those quirks that make us so bizarrely, beautifully individual.
I don’t know why, but there was something about witnessing pure attraction unfold that day that enlivened me in a new, or refreshed, way. It seems that seduction of the unexpected – by whatever or whoever – keeps us tender. And, wouldn’t you like to stay tender, as long as you can? I expect that someday soon, the man that captured me will reject his Britishness, gladly lose face and tell his potential beau that she melts him – in the most unforeseen but compelling way.
Isn’t life surprising?
loved this, immensely.