Green was Beautiful

I ate in a restaurant tonight. Dinner was good, and I kept company by reading Bukowski poetry. While I'm eating and reading, a woman and what looks like her sister walk enter and sit down. The older one goes to the restroom while the younger one in green sees me. I don't consider myself attractive, and don't try to fool anyone into thinking I am.

I was dressed up because I attended a presentation on the ultimizing effect of nature which was being given by my biology professor. It was quite interesting.

Anyway, Greensleeves sees me, and I notice her noticing me, and looking, and staring, and watching, but I keep pretending to read. Meanwhile, I'm wondering what she's looking at. I check my reflection in the window, peripherally, looking for anything out of place or odd, but no, just my scruffy, buttoned up self.

Then, she does something unique. She starts fiddling with her fingers. I concentrate more on the left flank of my peripheral, where she is, and its her wedding ring that she's messing with.

I can't say for sure if she was married, divorced, pending - whatever - point is she hesitated. At first she slipped it off and was ready to place it in her pocket, but then second thoughts crept into her head, and for a few moments, she deliberated before putting it back on her ring finger when the older one returned.

And that got me thinking...well, that and some kickstarts from Bukowski's depravity. What was she looking at? She doesn't know me, I don't know her. Would I have tried something? She was attractive enough, but seeing her play butter-churner with her ring nulled any possibilities for me. Going after those commited to others isn't my thing.

But again, what was she looking at? What she saw was a picture, a portrait. She saw the painted suit, the thoughtful pose, and the dimly lit scene; the stranger in the midst of it all, reading, lost in his own world, not caring about the one around him.

What she chose not to see was the story behind the painting. None of us ever wonder about the story behind the painting, the tale behind the piece of music, or the fable behind the novel. We just take what we can get at face value and convince ourselves its satisfactory.

I fart. She farts. I have underwear with holes in them, so does she, so do you, and you know, some of those types might be your favorite pair. You burp. We all have bad breath in the morning. It's the things we don't see that mean the most, because when the portrait is covered for the evening, that's all that we are left with. The runoff, the dirty dishes, the scraps; the unfinished sentences.