Take Another Look











{August 31, 2009}   The recipient of endless speculation

I

My left eye itched.

I felt like rubbing it hard, but then my contact would get contaminated, my eye would turn red, and all my makeup would spread over my face in splotches, probably getting black eyeliner on my shirt, and the cute guy sitting to my left in Kaladi’s Coffee sipping his cappuccino would notice.

Cute wasn’t really the right word. Chic, maybe? His cotton sweater looked outrageously expensive, and the expression on his pale face swore he’d never be caught dead in polyester. His glasses had no rims. According to the article I’d proofread last week for an online quiz, cappuccino drinkers tended to be “responsible and slightly reserved” with extra points for seriousness, ambition, and maturity.

I looked over at him and smiled a comehither glance, and I could have swore he winked.

Okay, that’s not exactly how it went. Actually, I was rummaging through my stash of stuff looking for eye-drops in a way that was as harried as it was undignified, and when he looked over and met eye-contact with me, I raised my hand as if to wave, then spilled my drink all over the table.

But it’s as if it went unnoticed because both parties looked severely dead-set on ignoring everything around them.

He was talking with his head down to a determined-looking girl. From what I could tell, she was no knock out. Her hair was up in a tight ponytail, a dead giveaway that she was a plain, mousy type. No competition there. I started to focus more on them rather than on him, trying to determine the nature of their relationship.

They were using words like “outsourced” and phrases like “digitally truncated.” I leaned closer and I think I heard the man spout something about “using the firms budget password to get into the main furnace and retrieve the password to the McCartheny file.”

I watched as the girl got up, went outside, and started using her phone.
Leaving my stuff on the table, I went to do a little snooping. Upon closer inspection, she was not plain at all. She had a fresh, Rose Bryne looking quality to her. I overheard her talking on the phone.

“The deal is closed. We have the fucker by his balls. I have to go Cher. Love you too.”

I tend to have an over-active imagination, but being on the receiving end of this sort of information was like telling a paranoid delusional that he was being watched all the time, implanting bugs in his apartment, and then sending the poor schmuck emails with video attachments of him digging paté off his fingers and licking it, for example. So I decided to intercede, get involved, see how this was going to play out, maybe play it out my own way. Can you blame me if I went a little overboard?

To be continued…

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CRM says:

So – like I randomly noticed on Facebook that you had a blog and checked it out.

I have to say – I’m impressed, you have a very good writing style.



velvetdewdrop says:

Thanks. Do you have a blog?



Dennis says:

Paranoia will destroy ya…I like the speaker “rewriting” herself. She’s funny and human–funny is often harder to do than people realize. This one goes by a lil too quickly though. You’d want to expand, slow down, add some details and incidentals, but this is a good beginning.



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