Staring Match for Strangers

Sometimes it's hard to look. Sometimes it's hard to look away.

From my seat on the park bench, I watched the lady leaning back on the tall oak tree with her right foot against the trunk and her knee sticking out.
       The afternoon always brought droves of people who chose according to their moods either the sunbathed green stretches or the shadier spots. Where they came from in such numbers was a mystery, but they reminded me of convicts milling around in a prison yard simply because that’s what they’re supposed to do after lunch on a sunny day.
       When I looked deep into their faces, I saw that some seemed genuinely happy to be here. Children tossed balls back and forth and laughed when their friends tripped over their own feet. Dogs barked at squirrels and tugged at their leashes while their oblivious owners chatted with strangers. An occasional breeze swept the autumn leaves onto blankets where women lay sunbathing, where men sat stealing furtive glances at those unsuspecting women.
        A paperback novel was in my lap, and my fingers were stuck between the pages. Once I'd seen the beautiful stranger at the oak tree I could no longer finish a single sentence. I tried to reread the same tired line, but my greedy gaze kept drifting back to her.
        She was standing in my usual spot.
       This was the first Saturday I'd ever sat anywhere other than under the oak tree. This was also the first day I’d ever seen such beauty alone in the park.
       Usually a woman met her lover here to lie under the sky and point out cloudy shapes and whisper secrets and giggle at nothing. That was all so distracting. I go to the park to read, not to listen in on the conversations of cuddling strangers, or watch their caresses and sloppy kisses. Why should I be subjected to such amorous displays when all I wanted was a peaceful place to escape into a world of words?
        But this day, on the last weekend of October, while the sun still warmly showered the park, the stranger was a welcome, refreshing distraction from my broodings about life and daydreams of other dimensions.                            
        Her yellow sundress danced in the wind, clinging to her body and at times riding up her legs until she modestly smoothed it down over her knees. Her raven hair waved around her face, and with a finger she plucked strands away from her unpainted lips. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes. Each time she turned and faced me, I felt naked and could do nothing but blush and quickly pretend to read my novel as I tried to catch my breath. I hoped she hadn’t noticed that the book was upside down.
        Was she still looking at me?                               
        If I looked nearly as bad as I felt, after a long night of drunkenness followed by uncomfortable tossing and turning in my little twin bed at the halfway house, I would undoubtedly scare away any self-respecting woman were I to make advances toward her. Certainly sweat ringed my armpits, and through my pores oozed the odors of cheap whiskey. I smelled and looked like I belonged in a cardboard box next to a dumpster. I
needed a bath, a shave, and a new perspective.                                     
        A sudden pang of nausea accompanied the realization that she was watching me. I dared not prove my suspicion correct. I thought by merely looking at me she could read my mind, so obvious was my affection for her, and I thought of what a jumbled, frightening mess my mind was. She would scream if she saw into my head. Finally, after scanning the entire park avoiding the spot where she stood, my eyes met her gaze. Did it seem accidental? To my dismay, we stared at each other without once turning aside. I couldn’t move. A smile curled on her face. She swept her long hair behind her ears. Was she laughing at me? She planted both feet on the ground and leaned back against the tree. Her hand went into the air, and for a moment I thought she was waving at me. I returned the gesture, but as her fingers splayed and her hand stayed in midair I realized she was only caressing the wind.                                                 
         What I would do for a woman like that. What would I not do?
         As she watched me, I felt bile rising in my stomach, and thought I would either be sick or my anxious heart would explode. Ashamed, I dropped my head to my chest. My mind raced with possibilities. Would she approach me? What could she want from a dirty man in jeans dotted with paint, a white t-shirt with a hole at the n****e, shoes with jaws instead of soles? Did she wonder why I stared?                             
        I could feel the pimple on my nose growing bigger and bigger, jutting out like the top of a vanilla ice cream cone. My face was blemished with other similar evidences of my unhealthy lifestyle. My body was a temple in disrepair whose sole caretaker had turned into a lazy drunk a few years ago.  To be honest, I hadn’t brushed my teeth or combed my hair or shaved my face or changed my clothes since the Saturday before.
        Yes, I even disgust myself.                                
        I didn't come to the park to stare into a mirror and criticize myself, I thought. I would be better off scurrying away like a cockroach, with my book in my mouth, to another bench on the opposite side of the lawn, or to the shadows where I would repulse no one. It would be easier to hide somewhere and daydream that I was a famous poet or a beloved father or anything but what I was than to have this woman make me take into account everything ugly about myself.                                   
        She kept watching me. What was I to do?                    
        Before I could stop myself, or slap myself, I stood up, inhaling so deeply that my chest hurt, and stepped with extraordinary confidence over to the oak tree. I stopped a safe distance away from her so she would not mistake me for an attacker, and I made the usual polite noise to get her attention. Ahem. One half of me was calm, proud of my audacity; the other pleaded with me to run away, swing my arms wildly, gesticulate like an enraged animal, scream gibberish and scare little children out of my way.
          "Hello," she said, before I had the chance or mustered the courage to say an actual word. Her soft voice reminded me of the young lady who assisted with the support group at the halfway house, and who made a point of greeting me warmly every day.
        My memory’s list of greetings misplaced, I said, "Hello,” and stood there awkwardly, feeling like a parrot who was still learning the art of imitation.
        "It's a wonderful day, isn't it?" She sounded as though she genuinely cared how I
would respond.                                         
        "Well," I started. Until that moment the day hadn't been wonderful. "It sure is," I said.
        After a few silent moments, she said, "Aren't you going to tell me your name?"
        "I was meaning to, sorry. My name's Charlie."                
        "Hello, Charlie. It's nice to meet you. I'm Rayna." She held out her left hand, but not directly to me as though unsure if she wanted to shake my hand at all.
        I wiped my dirty hand on my jeans, which were even dirtier, before accepting hers. Against hers, mine felt clammy and cold like a trout just out of water, which I regretted, but I tried not to frown or make a joke about buying her a fish dinner. After shaking, our hands stayed linked for a few eternal seconds, a connection on which she seemed insistent. Then, she told me I had the hand of an artist.
        I had nothing to say to that. I had expected her to mention the squishy sound my hand had made when we shook. I had expected her face to contort into a look of utter revulsion, but she had sustained her smile.                        
        Without responding to her comment, without thanking her, without telling her that I actually was an artist, I said, "I-I saw you looking over at me and I thought I'd come say something." When I paused, I managed to squeak like a dog’s chew toy. "And now here I am, and I've totally forgotten everything I was going to say."                
       "Is that why you approached me? You got the signal that I was interested because my face was turned to you, because my eyes were resting on you and I seemed pleased at your appearance?"                                        
       "Well, put like that it makes me rethink the whole thing. But, in a nutshell, yes. I usually don't approach strangers. I'm observatory by nature. I come here to the park to read,"- I held up my book for her to see- "and I watch the crowds of people and the flocks of birds that come and go and leave their marks and their trash all around on the ground.      It gives me good ideas."                                
        "That's a funny reason to come to the park."                    
        Feeling slightly insulted, I said "Well, why do you come here?"
       "I come to listen to the wind in the trees, and the children laughing, and the birds singing, and the footsteps of busy people hurrying by, and the chatter of squirrels, and the language of love that seems to come from so many different directions, even from the sky."
        Suddenly, my explanation of why I come to the park seemed overwhelmingly insufficient. And I felt something else, a strange chemical reaction in my mind as though I were breathing fresh air for the first time in my life. "Would you like to get coffee?" I said, unknowingly fingering my last bit of pocket change. Shocked, when I realized what I'd said, again I wanted to run away. I could barely afford to make a local call from a payphone.
        "I'd prefer a cold beer, with a lime." She smiled, mouthful of perfect whites, and little dimples formed on her cheeks. "Give me just one moment," she said, and then she knelt down. Still looking at me, she felt around in the leaves as though for a lost earring. "Ah, here it is." She came back up with a short black baton whose end was painted red.
        "My sister used to twirl batons," I said. Finally something to say to make myself sound like a normal man with a normal life.
        Throwing her head back, she laughed and her hand slid onto my shoulder. "Well, Charlie, if you just lead the way we can get out of here.”                                 
        We were stepping back onto the paved trail when she looped her arm through mine. My heart was thudding with excitement. There was obviously more spring in my step, and I wanted everyone in the park to see that I too was now walking arm in arm with a lovely lady who actually knew I was alive and who listened and cared what I thought. I was so dizzy with happiness that I didn’t think to steer her away from the limb in her path. She didn’t step over it. Had I not held onto her with all my puny strength she would have fallen to the ground. Her sunglasses fell from her face into the grass. We both reached for them, but she went looking in the wrong place altogether.
       That’s when I realized my folly. I wanted to apologize to her, and  say I was sorry for being so blind. But that would have sounded even ruder. With one hand on her shoulder, I put her sunglasses against the back of her searching hand.
       “Oh, thanks.”                           
        "You know," I said, "I didn't realize you couldn't--Well, you know. I was making all those dumb remarks, sounding like a jerk and all. My sister twirls batons, yeah, and I'm a stupid idiot." I wanted to kick myself in the face. How I would do that I didn't know, but it seemed a worthy punishment for rubbing salt in what I perceived to be her wounds.      
       "That's silly." She laughed, which made me feel silly. "I can see better than most people, Charlie. I just don't use my eyes," she said. "So don't feel bad about something you can't change. Other people are distracted by what they see and usually end up forgetting that things are never quite what they seem. But me, I see more than that. I see deeper."
      She took off her sunglasses and wiped them on her dress. I saw her gorgeous emerald eyes, glazed, distant and unfocused.
     We left the park together. At a little pub across the street, we took a table out on the terrace. The waiter didn't gawk at Rayna. Instead of an invalid, he saw a beautiful stranger sitting there. I smiled with my secret knowledge. Rayna seemed to sense my pleasure. Under the table her shoe touched mine and sent an electric sensation of arousal pulsing through me.                                       
      After the waiter brought out our beers, I watched as Rayna sipped hers. She licked her lips, truly savoring the flavor, and made a pleased sound. I wondered then what that beer tasted like to her. I wondered how it was living life in darkness, holding a bottle she’d never see, standing on the green grass in a park under an azure sky wearing a banana sundress, never knowing what any of those colors looked like.     
    I wondered how I had stumbled upon such good fortune. With those darkened eyes had she seen something beautiful in me?
 

Author's Note

Any comments, suggestions on how to improve the piece, examples of what worked and what didn't work for you---All feedback is welcome! Thanks for reading. Hopefully this work will soon appear in print.

Reviews

[Indigoshadows]

ADMIRATIONS:
I enjoyed the emotions you invoked by this piece. Many people can relate to the feelings of inadequacy. I felt like you put the reader on that park bench-- impressive work. I felt every pimple and scar and piece of loose skin.... I felt --- Bleh! Gross! Yet, you ended the story so well, I forgot about all of that and felt better. Whenever you get the reader's personal emotions innvolved with the piece and the characters, then you know you've done well. Also, the clues were not obvious here. I was like "a baton... what?" Then everything started to click together on their walk away... which is when the main character discovers it too. Bravo.
CRITICISMS:
1. In this sentence you say "Where they came from I don't know, but they reminded me of convicts in a prison yard." Yet you don't show us how they remind him of it.
2. In this sentence "But this day, nearing the end of October, while the sun still warmly showered the park, I believed I'd seen an angel who was hiding her halo." the whole angel thing is a little too cliche and I was a little disappointed by it.
3. I think you can a few words to this to play up his feeling of unoriginality.
"Hello," I said. I felt like a parrot.
OVERALL:
I really love how you played everything out and held back the truth until the very end. Great read. I'd try to get it published. It's just that good.

[Rachael]

a great piece, another twist that i did not see coming (sorry bout the pun) :P

you've done so well with this narrative voice, i could really feel how he was squirming on that bench all sweaty and pimply with his upside-down book. The subtle hints woven through about his down and out situation (mentions of a half way house and his broke state)

couple of sentences that sounded a little off: "An occasional breeze swept the autumn leaves onto blankets where women lay sunbathing, where men sat stealing furtive glances at those unsuspecting women."
the repeat of the word "women"
also the first sentence of the piece didnt really grab me so well... seemed a little clunky.

other than that it was an absolute pleasure to read, thanks again no one

[Annebelle Ashire]

ah... the undeniable self-indulgence of one who assumes.

I absolutely love your words here - the plot was wonderfully beautiful.
and it made me smile - that's always a good thing.

Relation is an important step when writing - and so my being able to helped a great deal.
I loved how you captured how everything looked and felt.
But might I add scent...? - how the park smelled that day...the aroma of Rayna,
the taste of the beer...the look on her face as she didn't once actually look in his direction as she shifted
her glasses off of her face to clean them..

This write was amazing - keep it up love, they're all wonderful!

~*AC*~

[Celtic Cat]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH......so refreshingly pleasing to all of my senses. This is a masterpiece, you're right to be proud of it. It's so full of everything. I think that's what I love about your writing...and I haven't been reading it long....but you throw so much at the reader that I'm IN these stories with you....laughing at your characters follies...applauding their triumphs. What a wonderful surprise that she is blind....now all I'm left wondering is did you have a credit card or were you going to be doing the dishes at the bar after your beers?
Excellent work. Gosh...should I point out all the places you made me laugh? You've such a talent for it. Well...I'll pay attention to your note and go ahead. These are things that definitely worked for me...not all in the same way...just all worked:
but they reminded me of convicts milling around in a prison yard simply because that's what they're supposed to do after lunch on a sunny day.

[bluessadmood]

oh how lovely when a poet falls in love ,he is vulnerable ,tattered clothes,ugly looks,eccentric,i know all these ,its what makes him so beautiful,he thought he is not worth her company,the poor dear ,all he has got is a beautiful mind,he could sense some wonderful person in picturing his love sitting there under the oak tree ,staring at him so nervous he is ,he can not even come close ,she is staring at him which sent his heart fluttering ,lucky him he thought ,only to his surprise the poor dear can not see ,but for a poet ,she can see as good as any else ,and wow he is in love ,lovely lovely write ,i really enjoyed it a lot ,thank you dear friend,moayad

[Jane Doe]

Wow. What a wonderful piece. Such a touching story, I loved it! Thanks for sharing.

[Rain]

Brother,
You have talent. I'm probably giving myself away by admitting I rarely read two stories back to back by the same writer, also..I really don't like reading. Something in your story reminded me of being in an art museum, and I would watch the people admire the beauty of the artist, but would also give me what I perceived as a look of superiority. I wanted to go up to them and say " I have far more in common with the person who painted what you're admiring that you could hope to have." But, I never did, even though most of the artists died in poverty and half insane. All I can say is I love this work. That's all a writer needs to hear. Rain..

[Raef C. Boylan]

The bit where he suddenly "realises his folly"...although I'm glad that it's not melodramatic, it would be good to know what made him realise. He doesn't seem to be processing the clues, from what we're told, so it comes out of nowhere. What makes him realise?

Other than that, I think the way you brought the story around to the fact that she is blind really skilful - I was so in tune with your narrator that I had no idea either, until he did.

Indigo mentions the sentence "Where they came from I don't know, but they reminded me of convicts in a prison yard", and I'm inclined to agree with her that it needs refining a little. I'd suggest either linking it more clearly to the sentences that follow - the kids tossing balls and people milling around etc - or expand the slightly with an explanation. Although it's good to challenge the reader to engage their imaginations, I think in this case that a tiny bit of justifying wouldn't hurt.

Overall, a brilliant story. Great detail, language and characterization. I enjoyed this a lot.
Thanks for posting it.

[Rena Beau]

Wow, this was so. . .captivating. The characters were both intriguing enough to keep the reader hanging on to every last bit of it, where characters sometimes have a tendency to bore you a bit. I positively love the fact that she's blind. Guarenteed that she can sense the beauty within.

[Sabbath_Nikole]

That was quite amazing. I really enjoyed reading this. You surprised me at the end, i didn't have a clue. The last line is my favorite.
Your very discriptive, but not overly so. You don't go on and on and on and on, and then make the reader forget the actual point. Good stuff, No One.