There He Goes: A Short Story

He’s so suave and debonair. He doesn’t see me. I mean why would he? I probably look like every other woman that’s thrown a glance or two his way.

I bet he drinks pinot noir with his steak. Actually, he’s probably a vegetarian, or a vegan, no, more like a vegetarian. His water probably comes boxed and gluten-free beers are stocked cold in the fridge.

The fridge with the LED paneling on the front, double freezer drawers and a portrait of his effervescent ex-girlfriend that metaphorically prevents him from looking at girls like me.

He looks clean. Too clean.

He’s probably one of those germaphobes, with a slight case of OCD.

Let me tuck my shirt in.

I know he sees right through me. The twenty-something girl who appears to have it all together. “You have such a mature disposition,” they say. If only they knew that my dad takes my car in for maintenance checks or that I still share a room with my sister.

He definitely wouldn’t look my way if he knew the number of partners I had, or how long it takes me to defend myself before walking away.

Self-deprecating. You’re being self-deprecating. Oh wait, he’s lingering. He smiled. At me? No, at the colleague who was walking by me in the hallway.

Shit. Maybe it was towards me. God, his teeth are luminous. He probably gets that million dollar teeth whitening treatment reserved for the stars. And his suits- Brooks Brothers all the way.

Fix your hair, you’ve been rocking that bun all week. He doesn’t even know what you really look like because you dress like someone’s pious wife. He’s walking my way.

“Hi.”

He said hi. He saw me. Like really saw me. It must be that new lip gloss. The lady was right, cinnamon is my color. I knew I should’ve bought this top in other colors.

I look pretty damn good today now that I think about it.