Friday, June 3, 2011
The Golden Girl.
Looking down her golden nose upon him, she wished him a death to save him from the humiliation of it all. She waited for his words to sink in, waited for some emotion to overwhelm the rigid indifference, and then, like sunshine over glass buildings it spread across her mind, the only thing she was capable of feeling at the point: utter disgust.
He waited, having laid his heart bare at the workplace of a wickedly enchanting seamstress. She waited, for some pity, some callous politeness so this could be easier for him.
What possesses a man like that to say things like those to someone like her- or well, to anyone at all?
And like motion sickness, everything she despised in him hit her suddenly.
His hair overgrown like a rabid street dog's, because he was too cheap to get a cut. She couldn't remember the last time he had gotten one, unless:
Do you like my hair?
Finally decided it was getting out of hand?
Toni & Guy, babe. Toni & Guy.
Well.. the academy. The woman took four hours, and I fell asleep in the middle.
In her mind she could see the drool from his mouth covering the magnificent leather of the hairdresser's chair, reflected in the tall mirror under the spotlights, his fall from grace for the entire world to see. And how wrong the word 'babe' sounded in his mouth.
His morning breath, so inescapably repulsive, because he would smoke before he would brush his teeth.
The same shirts he wore again and again and again till they blended into the grey of his skin. The holes in the toes of his socks because he would rather spend money on club entry than invest in personal hygiene. The way his alphabets were either never capitalized, or capitalized all wrong, or pronounced wrong, in the scrawl that was his handwriting.
But more detestable than his choices in life, his complete disregard for appearances, the repugnant stench of blatant poverty, was the sickening desperation of his ways. The way he would strip off his shirt on every occasion, without invitation or provocation, to assert his masculinity by showing his abs. Or how he used his presence on the basketball team (the third team) as evidence of his sexiness. Or his vapid criticism of little things in her appearance, her hair, her fluctuating weight, or her clothes. And the lies in way of overcompensation. Like how he was on the honour roll while his accidental result card showed clear 'C's. How he received VIP tickets to a fashion show, which turned out to be tacky, and the seats weren't even VIP. Like how he said that one confused night that his train left at six in the morning, meaning he had nowhere else to go in this city, so she let him stay on, which he did- stayed on, watched her fell asleep as the drudgery of his conversation got the better of her, sat there, watching her sleep, past sunrise, past six o clock when his train was supposed to leave, past nine in the morning when she woke up and noticed his unwelcome presence.
It all came back to her now, the way he told her to do things, told her what the right choices in life for her would be. He was Flaubert's footpath upon which the ideas and ambitions of common men dragged their feet with torn socks under dirty shoes. And as the stark ugliness of everything he represented to her sunk in, then came the first ghost of pity.