The Man With The Shiny Hair
heb0
She had a type of beauty that should have been impossible. Even her imperfections—the slightly oversized nose, the faint scar upon her brow—seemed only to intensify her loveliness, making it real, unique. Making it her own, rather than the transparent illusion of those who sought perfection. Many of the men in the restaurant cut off in mid-conversation to gawk as she passed, their wives sulking enviously, while she assumed her place at a table in the center of the room. The center, where she so obviously deserved to be. She nearly floated as she settled her way into her seat, with a gracious nod to the all-too-eager waiter. He paused, staring at the back of her golden head as she sat. She did not return his gaze, however; she gave him nothing more than a glance.
She had eyes only for the man whose hair shone like an expertly polished gem. For him: the one. She gravitated toward him as he lounged in his seat, her face assuming a simper of adoration for the one who would never return her love. He said something—confidently, almost carelessly—and returned his attention to his perfectly manicured hands. She laughed, a false laugh that held far too much enthusiasm for so simple of a joke, and despite its fakeness the melodic sound turned the heads of every man in the room. But not the man seated opposite her, she one with the shabby overcoat that he had forgotten to remove. No, she already had his attention.
She had—and would have for the entire night, in fact—his complete devotion. Every move she would make, every word that would leave her slightly parted lips, would have his rapt attention, despite the fact that none of them would be directed at him.
And yet still he sat expectantly, his face thrown into a hopeful grin. He hunched over, making himself appear smaller than he actually was, and leaned toward her in the same hopeful way that she leaned toward her other companion. Her other companion, however, leaned toward no one, looked at no one but himself: the shine of his hair in the reflection of the china, his ironed shirt, which he occasionally brushed a hair or piece of lint from with a look of disgust.
And there the trio sat, all of them loving but none receiving their love directed in return. None, that is, but the man admiring his hair in his empty plate. It was only he that had such satisfaction; only he was free of the pains of unrecognized love. The scene held an almost comical air: the woman and shabby man leaning over as if they had simultaneously dropped something in the floor, and were both fishing to retrieve their possession. They remained this way up until the return of the server.
A bead of sweat sat on waiter’s brow, threatening to slide down the bridge of his nose, and he smiled expectantly as he turned first to the woman. He spoke, although she did not hear him at first. The woman tore her gaze from the object of her idolization for only a moment, just to mutter something unintelligible to all but herself and her companions in reply. But one did not need to be within earshot to know what she had said. I’m having what he’s having, her expression all-but-announced adoringly, as her eyes sought those of her obsession.
And when the waiter turned to the shabby man after receiving the requests of the other two, one did not have to know him to see the battle raging in his mind. The clash between refusal to submit to the will of the man he envied so greatly and the desperate wish to prove his adoration to the woman he loved. And one did not need to be able to read lips to know the words that he spoke after, when it became clear that infatuation had won out: I’m having what she’s having.
And when the meal came, the only one that got what he truly wanted was the man with the shiny hair.
heb0
She had a type of beauty that should have been impossible. Even her imperfections—the slightly oversized nose, the faint scar upon her brow—seemed only to intensify her loveliness, making it real, unique. Making it her own, rather than the transparent illusion of those who sought perfection. Many of the men in the restaurant cut off in mid-conversation to gawk as she passed, their wives sulking enviously, while she assumed her place at a table in the center of the room. The center, where she so obviously deserved to be. She nearly floated as she settled her way into her seat, with a gracious nod to the all-too-eager waiter. He paused, staring at the back of her golden head as she sat. She did not return his gaze, however; she gave him nothing more than a glance.
She had eyes only for the man whose hair shone like an expertly polished gem. For him: the one. She gravitated toward him as he lounged in his seat, her face assuming a simper of adoration for the one who would never return her love. He said something—confidently, almost carelessly—and returned his attention to his perfectly manicured hands. She laughed, a false laugh that held far too much enthusiasm for so simple of a joke, and despite its fakeness the melodic sound turned the heads of every man in the room. But not the man seated opposite her, she one with the shabby overcoat that he had forgotten to remove. No, she already had his attention.
She had—and would have for the entire night, in fact—his complete devotion. Every move she would make, every word that would leave her slightly parted lips, would have his rapt attention, despite the fact that none of them would be directed at him.
And yet still he sat expectantly, his face thrown into a hopeful grin. He hunched over, making himself appear smaller than he actually was, and leaned toward her in the same hopeful way that she leaned toward her other companion. Her other companion, however, leaned toward no one, looked at no one but himself: the shine of his hair in the reflection of the china, his ironed shirt, which he occasionally brushed a hair or piece of lint from with a look of disgust.
And there the trio sat, all of them loving but none receiving their love directed in return. None, that is, but the man admiring his hair in his empty plate. It was only he that had such satisfaction; only he was free of the pains of unrecognized love. The scene held an almost comical air: the woman and shabby man leaning over as if they had simultaneously dropped something in the floor, and were both fishing to retrieve their possession. They remained this way up until the return of the server.
A bead of sweat sat on waiter’s brow, threatening to slide down the bridge of his nose, and he smiled expectantly as he turned first to the woman. He spoke, although she did not hear him at first. The woman tore her gaze from the object of her idolization for only a moment, just to mutter something unintelligible to all but herself and her companions in reply. But one did not need to be within earshot to know what she had said. I’m having what he’s having, her expression all-but-announced adoringly, as her eyes sought those of her obsession.
And when the waiter turned to the shabby man after receiving the requests of the other two, one did not have to know him to see the battle raging in his mind. The clash between refusal to submit to the will of the man he envied so greatly and the desperate wish to prove his adoration to the woman he loved. And one did not need to be able to read lips to know the words that he spoke after, when it became clear that infatuation had won out: I’m having what she’s having.
And when the meal came, the only one that got what he truly wanted was the man with the shiny hair.
