Attraction

They met in a café. In hindsight, this detail is mostly irrelevant. To me, it is less important where it happened, and more important what happened there. But people always ask about it, so I must tell. And I think it's because people have certain expectations for how these stories are supposed to go. But this one was, in fact, unlike any ever before. Or since.

That first meeting was unremarkable. He made eye contact and said hello, almost out of habit, as was his custom whenever he saw a cute girl. To do otherwise would be uncharacteristic, weak. He was done with that sort of shy, diffident, cowardly behavior. Not for many years had he been afraid of women.

Now there was obviously a superficial sort of mutual attraction between them, as there always is between two--well--attractive people. But the word is already insufficient. And though he noticed her, he was not yet floored by her. Not by a long shot; not yet.

She was likewise mostly unimpressed. To her, he was simply another pretty face, probably cocky too, probably vapid on top of that. But her conscious thoughts did not even go that far. She merely considered him a friendly fellow customer of the café; nothing more, nothing less. She didn't waste her time obsessing over every handsome guy that came her way because there were endless droves of them, always lining up to try their shot with her. It was so commonplace as to be exhausting. So she was polite, and promptly moved on with her life, which was much more fascinating to her.

Nothing else is worth mentioning about that meeting.

They both had their own lives to lead, and had full schedules that outright refused to retain their regularity, as we all know how that goes, due to the typical drama and pace of life in this century, especially among young people. And so that first meeting was nearly forgotten.

But then, it happened sporadically, over the next several weeks. At certain times, seemingly at random, they were both in that café again, simultaneously. He usually arrived alone; she, always with friends. To his observation, she either had a huge entourage of friends, or else she seemed to instantly make friends with whomever she sat with. Curiously, she never seemed to sit down with him, and make his acquaintance. Was she intentionally avoiding him? Or was he repulsive in some way that he had never before noticed? Had he done something wrong when they first met? These thoughts troubled him.

Anyways, she was usually so absorbed in the conversation, or the banter, or whatever way you could describe the delightful and lively interaction she always seemed to be having, that she did not really notice (or care to notice) that he was there.

He, on the other hand, though usually quite able at maintain his focus, even in such an environment, was nevertheless frequently distracted by her, and the energy that she exuded in the presence of her friends. As said, the two of them did not often converge at this café on any sort of predictable rhythm, so this diversion was not a serious impediment to his general efficacy. Else it would have stirred him to action much more quickly, either in the advance or the retreat. But so instead, it occurred gradually. To an outside observer, his inaction was intolerably long and painful to watch. But the spell slowly worked its magic, and before long he was irredeemably captivated. And helpless to do anything about it.

At a certain point, after some several weeks of this madness, he was able to put words to it-- the effect that she had upon him. And well, everyone and everything around her. As we have said, she was attractive. But this word is both perfectly apposite and yet also grossly inadequate in describing her. The word has been so overused lately as to become almost meaningless. Much like the word 'awesome'. Or that other word, which we have yet to use, which is what this is all about anyways.

She had an aura. The way he described it to himself was like this-- she was like a black hole. This too was insufficient, and perhaps somewhat inappropriate; the phrase having all sorts of negative connotations, not the least of which was its sole adjective, which implied lightlessness and chaos, and possibly even evil. But in its true sense, the phrase was also deeply accurate, in that it described a baffling metaphysical phenomenon that bent everything-- all matter, all light-- towards itself. She was like that.

Perhaps a better analogy was that it felt as if she sloped the ground towards herself. As if everything in the café was slightly uphill relative to her, and thus you were inclined towards her, drawn to her, and everything moved towards her, automatically, inherently, unconsciously. As if, were you to drop your pen on the ground, it would begin to roll in her direction, at first slowly, and then more rapidly, accelerating away from you. And thus it would obviously be in your best interest to pick it up sooner, rather than later, else you would find that the pen had quickly gotten far enough away from you and close enough to her that you would have to approach her in order to rescue it, and that endeavor of course would put you at risk of having to be near her, now having to actually look her in the eyes, perhaps even say something to her, something foolish and mumbled, probably, which would embarrass you, and she, already in the laughing mode, joking and jesting and generally in a jovial mood with whomever friends she had either brought or just met, and would probably start laughing now at you-- with them-- and that would certainly be the end of any sort of opportunity of any kind of thing, with her, before it ever had a chance. No.

But she was attractive, in that sense.

And all this so silly, so unlike you, because when you first met her, it was nonchalant, it was easy, your confidence brimming as always, no big deal, and now look at you, reduced to a mumbling idiot, in your imagination, but in reality alone, sitting in the corner of the café pretending to work, through truly unable to think straight for a single second. And all this in your head, nothing has ever happened yet in the real world, this whole interaction conceived and created from a distance, and you somehow know this as a fact, her attractiveness, without ever once actually making out any of the specifics of her conversations, or knowing anything about her, but still you instinctively recognize that this is no ordinary girl, no not at all, by the mere way she interacts with the people around her, the way she laughs, and the way she makes others laugh, and seems to be a miniature sun, all light and energy and radiance and warmth. But that contrasts with the earlier analogy. Which only shows that they all fail to truly put into words what she was like.

But more so the risk of approaching her would not just be the embarrassment, also that to approach her would be to put yourself in her orbit, now close to the event horizon and the last vestige of saving yourself from being totally sucked in, that force of irresistible attraction and superdense center of gravity, so close that you might not yourself escape, that you too would be absorbed, and whirled about, and like a centrifuge or a circus ride would have your guts turned inside out and your heart actually exposed and ripped out and splattered if you actually gave a real romance with such a woman a real chance, and then you'd really be screwed, because everything would be all out in the open, and no more hiding, no more holding back.

No, better to stay at a distance. Not to risk something like that, something so dangerous, so precarious, so costly. Better to pick up the pen sooner rather than later.

This line of argument satisfied him, for a little while. A few more repetitions of them both being at café, over the next few weeks, and he was not only less productive than usual, but actually a total wreck whenever she was there, unable to do anything other than fret and worry. He began to feel uneasy. This was so unlike him. He felt like a coward. Not since he was a teenager had he felt so unsure of himself, so paralyzed with fear. Since then, since he had grown up and became a man and began to feel his confidence surge, these kinds of interactions were usually easy for him.

But this one was different. This one might require something from him. Actually, everything. Everything he had, and probably more. And that was the scary part. Showing up and actually giving it all, exposing himself, and then discovering that it wasn't enough. Being rejected. It was fine to be turned down if he didn't care that much. So it was easier to just play it cool, play it like a game. Keep the walls up. But he had already long ago crossed that line; he could no longer play it off; he was obsessed.

But the thing that bothered him the most was that it bothered him. That he couldn't focus anymore on his work. And not just at the café, but sometimes away from the café. And sometimes just at the thought of going to the café, even though many times she wouldn't be there. But still just considering that she might be there started to fill him with an uncomfortable anxiety. He found himself spending more time in the mirror before he went out, a little too much time, fixing his hair or checking his teeth or whatnot. Things which he tried to tell himself were not vain, but only proper in a civilized person in this day and age, just as bathing and dressing. But again this line of argument failed because he knew this was unlike him, to spend so much time on such things. And it wasn't about looking proper, but about impressing her, specifically her. But he knew that that would fail too, because she was not that kind of person to be interested in mere looks.

Eventually, he realized that it had gone too far, that he had to confront himself, that he had to do something. There was obviously no getting around this. He had two choices before him. The first (he was even ashamed to think of it) was to stop going to this particular café. To discontinue his patronage, something he had maintained for years, something which he, to be honest, quite enjoyed. It was convenient, and the atmosphere was conducive to his work, and the coffee was consistently delicious.

The other, he was sickened to think of it, was to do the thing. To actually approach her To take a chance. To say hello. Again. It's funny to think of it, but they had already met. But it seemed like a lifetime ago. Surely she had forgotten him.

And this route, as we have said, would be dangerous. Because none of the outcomes were particularly appealing to him. He could be rejected, he could be mocked and laughed at. Or else something might result from the approach, something real, something raw, and something that would probably require everything from him. And that might destroy him. Or else, fulfill him, which was obviously the only reason anyone would do anything so risky in the first place. But he didn't know if he had it in him. And that was all a very terrifying proposition.

There was really no reasoning through it. Not anymore. It felt like -- kill or be killed. Not really, but it was like that. Do or die. Now or never. So he made the decision.

And ironically, after he finally worked up the courage to actually do the thing, she disappeared. Vanished. Or at least she stopped coming to that café, which was the only place he had ever seen her. So he started going there more and more often, almost every day, hoping to see her, afraid to lose his nerve. It was all so ridiculous, so silly, so childish. And he spent less and less time actually working in the café, more and more time in the mirror before going there, less and less time focusing on his work, and more and more time checking the door. It felt like a wedding, the part where the groom stands expectantly at the front, lets each bridesmaid pass, and saying, implicitly, "not you, not you, not you," until of course, she arrives, finally, and he says, "you." It was like that. But she never appeared.

And then over the weeks he sort of forgot about the whole thing, and his blood pressure returned to normal levels for a healthy adult, and he stopped sweating through his shirts, and he began to sleep better, and he was actually able to read a passage or two at a time, without stopping, in the café. And taste the coffee. And get on with his life.

Until, the day. That it happened. There she was again, inexplicably, like a half-forgotten memory, a nostalgia, painfully sweet. And then the dread suddenly returned, and the heart palpitations were stronger than ever, and even, comically, his hands trembled a little bit as he tried to sip his coffee. Of course she didn't make eye contact, probably didn't notice he was there, or cared, and she sat down at a table on the far side of the room, with what seemed to be friends of some appreciable tenure, rather than brand-new acquaintances, judging by their long hugs and unusual excitement and giddiness to be around each other.

And he, sitting there, jaw slack, trembling like a new tree in the wind, like a six year old who is afraid of the monster in his closet, crying to mommy and daddy, holding his blankey. He had lost his nerve, just like he feared he would. But he knew he couldn't go on like this, not anymore, this was so unlike him and had take so much of his sanity over the last few months that he couldn't bear it a single second longer. Do or die, now or never.

When he was a teenager, he would often play this stupid habit where he would wait as long as possible to make the approach. As if he needed the time to calm his nerves, to relax into the ambience, to put himself at ease. And then, finally, towards the end of the night, he would finally work up the confidence to say something to the girl. Ironically, over half the time, she would already have left by then, or else be engrossed in a conversation with some other suitor, and he would have missed his chance.

He thought about trying that now. Surely she would be there for a while, being with such close friends. Surely he had some time to stop this damn trembling, and the sweat already soaking his armpits might have a chance to dry up, and so on. But he knew that wouldn't work, it never worked, because if he waited it would be too awkward for some reason or another; they would be too deep into the dialogue, or they would suddenly leave right as he walked up, or there would be some other stupid excuse.

No, it was now or never. Fuck it. He pushed back from the table, his chair making that maddeningly grating sound on the tile floor which usually would have been reproachable. In this case, however, he was almost grateful for it, hoping it might catch her attention, so she would turn around and see him draw near. But she was engrossed with her friends. And it would be very awkward to interrupt, especially from behind. But he had no choice. He was already standing up.

Then he started walking towards her, but forgot about the table directly before him, totally lost in thought. He bumped the table, and spilled his coffee, and cursed himself. Still, no one noticed. At least, no one that mattered. Meaning the one. Her. He didn't even notice anyone else in the café. It was as if she and he were the only ones in the entire world, and every other body just furniture. She laughed and tossed back her hair. He caught a glimpse of her face. He was stricken.

And then, he felt the gravity, he felt the sloping of the floor, he felt himself inclined to her, he felt himself irresistibly attracted. There was no turning back. And after what seemed like an unreasonably long time of just standing there at his table, like a jackass, he began moving in that direction. She was still turned away from him, which was the worst, literally the worst. But it was what it was. As he got nearer, he noticed the conversation died down, and her companions looked up at him, and then she began to turn, obviously aware that they were looking at someone behind her, and he was standing right there, right in front of her, and she looked at him, and then...

To be continued