Actually, it was more of a wince followed by a cringe. And, his name wasn’t Handsome McHotpants. I didn’t know his name, but I recognized him as one of the afternoon security guards for the building and the one which I’d been harmlessly admiring-slash-stalking for the past five weeks. I never learned his name because I had a boyfriend; not to mention McHotpants was about twenty thousand leagues out of my league (at least in the looks department) and, according to my friend Elizabeth, likely gay. Elizabeth had once told me that men that look like McHotpants usually wanted to be with other men that look like McHotpants.
And who could blame them?
More often than I was comfortable admitting, I reflected that, even if his tastes were resolutely fixed on womankind, he was one of those people who were just decidedly too good looking; he shouldn’t have been possible in nature. It wasn’t that he was a pretty guy, I was certain he would not look better dressed in drag than ninety-nine percent of female kind.
Rather, it was that everything about him, from his consistently, perfectly tousled light brown hair to his stunningly strong square jaw to his faultless full mouth, was overwhelmingly flawless. Looking at him made my chest hurt. Even his movements were gracefully effortless, like someone who was dexterously comfortable with the world and completely secure with his place in it. He reminded me of a falcon.
I, on the other hand, always hovered in the space between self-consciousness and sterile detachment; I believe my gracefulness was akin to an ostrich’s; when my head wasn’t in the sand people were pointing at me and saying: what a strange bird!
I’d never been comfortable with the truly gorgeous members of my species. Therefore, over the course of the last five weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze, always turning or lowering my head long before I was in any danger; the thought of it was like looking directly at something painfully bright. Therefore, I admired him from afar, like a really amazing piece of art that you only see in photographs or behind glass in a museum. So we affectionately referred to him as Handsome McHotpants; more accurately, Elizabeth and I knighted him Sir Handsome McHotpants one night after drinking too many mojitos.
Now, looking up into the depths of endless blue through my black framed glasses, my own large eyes blinked and the cloak of numbness started to slip. A tugging, originating just under my left rib, quickly turned into a smoldering heat and radiated to my fingertips, up my throat, to my cheeks and behind my ears.
Why did it have to be Sir McHotpants? Why couldn’t they have sent Colonel Mustard le Mustache or Lady Jelly O’Belly?
He dropped his hand to his side as he cleared his throat, removed his gaze from mine and glanced around the room. I felt my face suddenly flush red, an unusual experience for me, and dipped my chin to my chest as I silently mocked myself; I finally felt embarrassment.
I took stock of the day and my reaction to each event.
I knew I needed to work on being engaged in the present without becoming overwhelmed. It occurred to me that I was demonstrating more despair over a stall of empty of toilet paper and the presence of a gorgeous male security guard than discovering that my boyfriend cheated on me, leading to my present state of homelessness, not to mention my recent state of unemployment.
Meanwhile Sir McHotpants appeared to be as uncomfortable with my surroundings and the situation as I should have been. I perceived his eyes narrow as they swept over the suspended crowd. He cleared his throat again, this time louder, and- suddenly- the room was alive with self-conscious movement and pointedly adverted attention.
After one more hawk-like examination of the room, as though satisfied with the effect, he turned his attention back to me. The stunning blue eyes met mine and his expression seemed to soften, I guessed most likely with pity. This was, to my knowledge, the first time he had ever looked directly at me.
I saw him, watched him every weekday for the last five weeks. He was why I started taking a late lunch as his shift started at one-thirty. He was why I now frequently ate my lunch in the lobby. He was why, at five-thirty on days when Elizabeth met me after work, I began loitering in the lobby by the arboretum and fountain; I would peek at him through squat tree trunks and tropical palm bushes, knowing my friend would not be able to meet me in the lobby any earlier than six.
McHotpants and I stood for a moment, uneasily, watching each other. My cheeks were still pink from the earlier blush but I marveled that I was able to hold his gaze without looking away. Maybe it was because I already put most of my feelings in an invisible box in an invisible closet in my head or maybe it was because I realized this was likely the twilight of our time together, the last of my stalkerish moments due to the recent severing of gainful employment, but I didn’t want to look away.