Attraction

His back straightens when he sees her.

I’m sitting quietly at my table, enjoying what remains of my crassly expensive hot chocolate, when I hear the door open from behind me. As most might, I looked to see who might be walking in. It’s something most people in the store did, actually, so I can only imagine how she might have felt to walk into a store and suddenly be seen by at least twelve different souls.

She’s blonde, her hair falls down in waves just above her waist — a waist that is hugged by a black skirt, which itself falls over black tights. Black leather boots climb her calves, stopping just short of her knees. Her peacoat appears to be violet, but in this lighting — and in my illness — it could very well be a vibrant shade of blue. A bronze pin pierces her lapel; a sunflower, stem and all. Her skin is pale, though her makeup…well, her face is three shades darker than her hands. Her grey scarf just barely hides the point where the paint ends and flesh begins, though who am I to judge? I can barely tell mascara from, Christ, whatever else it is women use to cover blemishes.

She’s attractive nonetheless, and I’m not the only person to notice.

The man in front of her sees it too, and I wonder if his noticing her is more blatant than mine. A writer can take quick mental notes — images burn themselves into the mind, perfected quotes to remember for later description and possible exaggeration. My notes were taken in what seemed like an instant, his were…well, his were lasting. Perhaps he wanted to make sure she saw him. Perhaps he wanted to leave an impression.

His sweater, an eggshell cable-knit with overdone holiday patterns, would most definitely make sure of that.

It was a size too small, something I guessed from his incessant need to reach up and pull the collar away from his neck. The poor man must have been uncomfortable. Underneath his sweater he wore a gingham button-up, with the sleeves pulled back and up his forearms. Pressed khakis lined his legs, and brown suede wingtips encased his feet.

He noticed her. She walked in, bringing in a gust of cold air with her, and we all noticed her. Beforehand the place was silent as the grave, the only sounds being churned out by ghosts of steam from espresso and milk. Her entrance was a disruption to our warmth — our peace. But as the door closed, most patrons returned to their drinks.

The man was next in line, but his gaze lingered on her for more than a handful of seconds. His hands, per usual, reached up to tug the collar away from his neck, and he straightened his back. His chest went from recessed to barreled, and in an instant he went from everyday orderer of coffee to, well, a more muscular everyday orderer of coffee. When he was called up to place an order, he coughed into his hand to deepen his voice. Black coffee, venti, room.

While he waited, he stole quick, silent looks at the blonde in the little black dress. How could he not? She was, after all, attractive. I kept waiting to see if this would turn into one of those moments from a romantic comedy movie — would he ask her out? Would he make an awkward pass? Would he spill his coffee on her “accidentally”? Moreover, I wondered, did she even notice him?

Her time in line was spent staring at the menu. She made no glances at any of the other patrons, and the only time her eyes shifted from the menu was to pull up the digital card on her phone. Caramel macchiato.

The man received his coffee, sipped it, and added his fixings. Was he taking time so he could spend more time seeing her? Was he purposely dragging out his order for this one woman who, arguably, was one of a hundred? Virginia is ripe with beach blondes, surely he could find another with ease. What made this one special?

Thus is the mind of the writer, perhaps. Perhaps these details were created fictitiously. Maybe I saw things that simply weren’t there; exaggerations, perhaps, to construct a readable experience.

As her order came up, he made his way back to her. Apparently while fixing his coffee, he had prepared a note on a piece of paper. This note was then casually slipped next to her drink as she went to pick it up, and as he passed the woman, he gave off a sly, satisfied smirk. To him, it was success. He left the building a new man.

She, however, crumpled the slip into a ball and tossed it in the trash can. Where he had seen victory, she had seen laziness. Cowardice, perhaps, could he not simply speak to her? Was he so disillusioned with his own pride that he thought hooking this woman would be so easy as slipping her a note?

Impossible.

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After reaching a personal milestone of some odd number of visitors, views, and followers, we’ve decided to expand our social reach by joining Bloglovin’! We’ve already found numerous blogs to follow, and now we’re adding The People Watcher to the network so everyone else can find us.

Here’s to hoping it brings in a fresh new crop of readers that enjoy our posts as much as we enjoy writing them!

“The greatest education in the world is watching the masters at work.”

After a week of life and people watching, I’ve decided to expand this blog’s potential even slightly. As of tonight, along with daily people watching posts, I will be posting quotes that have to do with watching those around you.

Of course that’s not it — simply posting a quote wouldn’t get us anywhere, so we’re going to be expanding on these quotes in posts that are (hopefully, no promises) under 400 words. Brief pieces about what these quotes mean to us and how they can be implemented in everyone’s day-to-day struggle.

After searching long and hard, I’ve found the right quote to kick this feature off with, one by Michael Jackson: “The greatest education in the world is watching the masters at work.”

This whole people watching thing is as much a plan to help me become a better writer as it is to see things more clearly, to make an attempt at really seeing everything around me and taking it all in instead of simply noticing things and forgetting about it. It is by all means an education. I sit in places for minutes or hours and jot down what someone is wearing or what they’re saying not just for the purpose of blogging, but to become a better writer. These pieces are, if nothing else, individual character studies. Examinations of humanity. Some may call it eavesdropping, some may call it creeping — and I wouldn’t argue with them. I drop myself into intimate situations and construct the world around me out of words. What’s the weather like? What’s she wearing? What is his laugh like? What are they drinking?

I gain my education by watching and writing about people…about humanity, the masters of their world. In my week of doing this, I’ve discovered people watching to be as much of an art as it is a hobby, and as much of an education as it is an art. As such, Jackson’s quote is the perfect way to kick off my new daily quote feature.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, and as always I appreciate you reading.

The Smoker

She sits alone under the carport, a shield from the downpour that surrounds her. She’s older, but not elderly, and “slightly overweight” – something she says her recent back surgery caused. I’ve talked to her once before, and she explained that the pool gave her relief from her pains, both physical and emotional.

“Floating supports my back,” she told me, “and going under keeps everything in my head quiet.”

A couple of months ago she told me about her mental state and how her ex-husband had pushed her to driving a shard of glass into his stomach. He survived, and she was left with a scar in her palm (she held her hand up to show me – there was no scar). Psychiatrists had prescribed her a number of pills to take daily, but according to her they’re doing more harm than good. She says they add voices, rather than remove them. Her family is the root of her problem, she tells me, “The bane of her very existence” — having cut her off from grandchildren and financial support. She now lives with her daughter and grandson – the only two people that haven’t yet abandoned her. She explains that were it not for them, she would not be alive today.

She once told me that this, her current existence, is hell.

She sits under the carport smoking one cigarette after another after another. Even from my spot, some twenty feet away, she appears blank. Maybe it’s the gloomy weather, but she seems more depressed than usual today. On occasion I’ll see her outside smoking, usually standing and pacing – today she’s sitting in a purple lawn chair, staring into the many thousands of raindrops falling in front of her.

Four cigarettes, and she consumes each one down to the butt. Hot orange tip after hot orange tip.

After she finishes her last cigarette, she reaches for another but the box is empty. She sets it back down on the little square table to her left side, and proceeds to dump the ashes into the little patch of grass that would – I suppose – be called her front lawn. It’s no larger than three feet wide by five feet long.

Even without cigarettes, she remains seated for the next ten minutes, staring idly into the rain. When she attempts to breathe in, her first real breath I’ve seen while watching her, she coughs. Hard enough to make her bend over and hold her chest, but not hard enough to make her go inside. I rarely see her outside, so I’m not sure if the cigarettes are what’s killing her or if, ironically, it’s the fresh air.