from The Story of Michelle
(2007)


The sleek, bright, modern gourmet coffee shop was packed with cute, entitled NYU students; sporty, attractive 20 and 30-something creative / entertainment types; and tastefully dressed and well-fed middle-aged academics and assorted professionals. David and I had seats right in the cozy center of it all. As we talked about where his script might go, kicking around some ideas for my character (things he might say, behavioral ticks) I saw, outside through the far glass-walled entrance, two attractive late-twenty- / early-thirty-something-year-old women bundled in black down jackets both wearing tight, short skirts over black stockings with the almighty and, fortunately, currently en vogue high spiked-heel, pointy-toed boots which automatically and, in the most pleasant way, bring out the slut in any dignified and self-respecting woman.

The second of the two women had bright red shoulder-length hair with matching bright red lipstick which stood out in contrast to her fairy, pale-white complexion like a bowl of cherries sitting on a bank of freshly fallen snow. In her gloved hands she carried a large, important-looking tan parcel. The two women chatted ferociously about something of apparently great import, walked brusquely into the coffee shop, almost right up to where David and I sat, allowing me to get a good long, heart-thumpingly depraved look at the stunning redhead, who, with her friend, stopped, turned around and walked out and back down the street in one, giant, sure, swooping motion as if on a catwalk in Milan.

And, just like that, I had the feeling of, if not needing, then at least wanting this red-haired, fair-skinned woman. She had all the traits that, for some reason, in the last several years had come to make up “my type”: Tall (at least 5’9”), on the thin, model-y side, with long, thick blonde or red or strawberry blonde hair, a woman who walks with a gait of utter confidence –or, who at least appears confident– which, with heels on, sounds like clack-clack-clack-clack at a tempo that sheet music would describe as “robust” or “up-beat,” and which translates, undeniably, to the male ear as important-important-important-important, like a reproductive news flash ringing down the street. This “ideal” type of mine has a round, puckered mouth, not too big, not too small on a face with narrow, slight, softly angular lines topped off, most importantly, by a pair of large watery eyes that have clearly seen, even at their relatively early age, enough personal drama and emotional guerilla warfare for multiple adult lifetimes though they still somehow manage to twinkle audaciously like a north star almost-but-not-quite swallowed up in the yawning mouth of a slowly turning black hole.

David saw my eyes fix on something in the distance and turned to see for himself. We were both watching her exit stage right, out the door and down the street when, suddenly, like a doe through a calm, forest clearing, she turned in my direction to see my red-stocking capped head aimed, like the tip of a missile, directly at her. When she was finally gone I made one of those dumb eye-squinting, whistle-mouth, slowly-head-shaking expressions men make when a beautiful woman just “blew” their minds even though I cringe whenever I see other men doing that, looking, as they do, like one of those pathetic, generic beer commercial dudes doomed to ogle eternally, a stupid, boyish smirk plastered across his face.

“I like her,” I purred to David.

He turned again rapidly almost twisting his neck clear off his vertebrae. I thought to myself, “Now that’s the kind of woman I need to approach.” If she came back I would have to do myself a favor and talk to her, start a conversation, give love a chance, see where things go. I’d recently been thinking and talking a lot about women whom I find so attractive that I feel nervous in their presence, my thesis being that this reaction is the optimal reaction to have and that I should pay attention to it – if I am so physically attracted to a woman that my heart-rate dramatically increases and I feel myself becoming a mushy, uncertain, slightly pathetic version of my “normal” self in her presence that must mean that something is at stake and that if I perform well (fight down my nerves, go up and say hi) then I might “succeed,” i.e. begin a relationship with someone whose presence I find exhilarating. If I “fail,” I’ll continue to go out with perfectly attractive, interesting women whose presence (because nothing whatsoever is ultimately at stake) does not cause in me an indefatigable, wave-like sensation.

Of course, feeling a heightened-sensory reaction towards a woman has nothing to do with whether or not she and I would get along or if we would find each other remotely interesting (those who think Love-at-first-sight is baloney cite this fact) but it does mean (I think) that these are the women I’m supposed to approach to find out if we might get along, might have something to talk about – like a mutual genealogical background or a shared interest in yoga or bukakke.

I got the idea for paying attention to my nervousness from those wild animal behavior programs on TV I almost only ever watch when I’m at my mom’s house, laid out on my childhood bed, home for the holidays. The gravel-voiced hosts are always talking about the biological function of fear and what a good thing fear is because without it we wouldn’t know that our wellbeing was immediately at risk. In the same way, it seems evident that when we speed up, seize up or get tight in a bout of nervousness it’s because our body’s trying to send us information –information far more important than anything our brains can tell us– that something vital is occurring so for god’s sake, pay attention you daffy loon!

David and I returned to talking about his script as the relative normalcy of the world was restored, post-babe. But five minutes later the red-haired woman, to my complete surprise, re-entered stage right, this time alone, walking in front of the coffee shop’s ceiling-high glass façade. She walked through the door right up next to our table, all the while in fierce, intermittent, undeniable eye contact with me. She sat down at the only free table in the entire café that just happened to be located directly next to ours and, as the cherry on top, she decided to sit (of the four chairs available to her) at the one directly facing me. Coincidence? In moments as apparently obvious as that I am often given to imagining that the reality of the situation is, no, must be different than it actually appears, that there must be some other explanation, some other rationale lying beneath the surface of things ready to replace the false, mere appearance with a true and unseen authenticity. In other words, I wasn’t just being a fool I was being a damned fool.