Thursday: 9:48 p.m.
Whenever I meet someone for the first time, I always seem to focus on minute and unimportant features. For example, her hand is faintly sweaty, her teeth slightly crooked, and one of her eyebrows is a bit shorter than the other. I wonder why.
She laughs lightly as I sit down, and it sounds almost nervous. People need to feel comfortable. I have found this to be especially true with women, but I think that mostly they just want a situation to feel right. I can do that for her.
Turning my head, I nod politely and smile. “That’s very true. It gets ridiculous how crowded these things are. I guess we should have flown first class.”
As I say this last part, my smile widens slightly as if I’m telling a clever joke. She predictably responds in kind and giggles amiably again, then turns back to her book. I continue to watch her. I don’t like hairy arms.
When leading a conversation, I have found that it is usually best to be very open about what is expected. In this case, I need to make my direction of the conversation very obvious. If I don’t, she’ll obey the rules of her strict upbringing and remain distant and polite. I can’t have that.
She pretends to read for a little longer, then, fully aware of my fixed gaze, turns back toward me with a coy look and abruptly asks, “So, Luke, you’re American, right?”
“Yes.”
I love monosyllables; if uttered correctly, they seem mysterious. Women love a mystery. Also, I add another smile to this word. I learned at a very young age that the more you smile, the more fun you are having. To a woman, if you are having what appears to be a genuinely enjoyable time, you must be honest and, of course, comfortable.
“Yes? I thought so.” She seems delighted with herself. “I haven’t been to America in years. Do you want to know how I guessed?”
The question seems innocent enough, but she delivers it with an oddly mischievous twinkle.
“I want to say that my dreadful English accent is to blame, but you look like you might have something much less kind in mind.”
I keep my tone light and inviting. She looks better in the shadows.
“Oh yes!”
This laugh is genuine, and I am surprised at how low it sounds. I expected something closer to a yelp.
“You see,” she continues, “no one but an American could have been quite as blatantly rude to that heavy gentleman in the back!”
My grin is also sincere. Nice! But, I shake my head in a teasing manner none-the-less. “That’s not fair! He was going far too slow for any nationality.”
“True,” she concedes, “but like I said, only an American would be so direct as to tell him so.”
“Ok, perhaps . . .” Personally, I don’t mind stereo-types. I will use this one to my full advantage. “But, now it’s my turn.”
Her eyes are a deep blue. Pretty, I suppose. She has a fascinating way of tilting her head and peering up at me from beneath her lashes.
“Ok, fair enough. Where am I from?”
I clear my throat and straighten up in my seat in mock seriousness.
“Let’s see, your voice has a prim and proper ring to it, but not so much as to make you English.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she says nothing.
I continue. “Perhaps you have lived there for some time? You are definitely a native speaker, but not Australian and certainly not Canadian. So, I’m going to say that your slight hint of a drawl betrays you and guess that you were born in the U.S. (perhaps Alabama) and have been living in the U.K. for the last couple of years. Am I right?”
YOU ARE READING
In the Tears of My Saints
Spiritual"I cry. That's all. And as I cry, the tears fall from my heart and change the world around me. They take pain, they take fear, they take horror and they destroy them. They gather up the bodies and blood, carrying them away toward the pit, flinging t...
