The September 12th paradigm

I remember September 10th 2001.

Then, people hardly stood for the National Anthem or assumed the proper stance during sporting events. No soldiers repelled from the ceilings of ice rinks before the game. The league held no commemorative nights where the players wore partially or wholly camouflage jerseys or some color-coded ribbon to 'honor' heroes.' There were no color guard ceremonies or moments where the whole audience had to get up and salute 'our veterans.'

Dying for a specifically shaped, colored, and patterened piece of fabric that you call a synecdoche for all the things you hold dear, which happens to fall under the governance of that government that flies this fabric is a mistaken association happening when Joe America's ability to lift and repaint his pickup and court Mary America at their town's burger joint is somehow delivered onto us by Joe Soldier's 4-year tour of duty spent at the terminus of a military supply chain on a sand bagged hilltop in Afghanistan where he occasionally exchanges fire and launches mortar rounds at an adjacent hillside because doing that in some way is what kept a militarized Asian religious sect from conquering every aspect of what it is to be free and American, from the church steeple to the last slurp of that malt with Mary.

"I'll stand by joo"

This happens from time to time.
I attract someone from afar.
And no matter what the situation, almost always it becomes another two ships passing in the night.
That's because I don't want to ruin the unique and special feeling that low-information encounters such as these provide me. 

I was walking through the Galleria after a doctor's appointment, trying to make the most of a day off during the week. It was no more than 10 am. I take the same entrance and pass through the same part of the open area to reach a few stores where I shop.

As I passed one of the kiosks I noticed a woman organizing the items she was selling and she noticed me. Our eyes met. It was a lengthy enough look that I got the feeling she liked what she saw. I liked what I saw. Hell, if the woman is half-way decent then I like that she looked at me probably more than anything. Yeah, I'm a vane prick. So be it. I pay my penance for it. I live alone, perpetually so.

I visited the two stores I normally do for clothes, tried on a few things, and ended up spending a total of eleven dollars and ninety-some cents on a 'designer' t-shirt. It's soft. It's the right color, dark blue. Hell, it's a nice cut, although I didn't even try it on; no, just the pants.

As I was wending my way back through a more populated mall at some time before noon, I spied that same kiosk off in the distance, and I noticed that same saleswoman looking at me. She had locked on hard this time. I looked away a few times. The escalation of eye contact was making me nervous.

Kiosks are almost always run by foreigners, mostly men with dark hair, dark beards, and some exotic good looks, too much cologne, and clothing that suggests they drive something foreign and either sporty or refined. Sure enough, a man fitting that description was on the back end of the kiosk. His co-worker, this exotic woman was sitting on a chair at the kiosk.

I almost never stop at kiosks when I'm passing through the mall. They sell things I just don't need. This one was no different although like 300 million other Americans I had a perfectly good reason to. I had a cellular phone. The kiosk? Celluosite. I could have sparked up some neutral topic and chatted with her, smiled maybe once or twice. Hell, I could have even asked for her number. But no; I did not. I just looked at her a few times and then averted my gaze to keep from appearing too interested. What a pussy.

If I were to guess her ethnicity I would put it somewhere on the brown continuum. Perhaps somewhere from the Levant, Lebanon or Syria perhaps? No, she was too 'liberated.' Maybe she was Turkish or Armenian. She was probably just a uniquely un-Serbian-looking Serbian. She was short, thin, had curly brown hair with blonde highlights. She was dressed in gray pants and a dark top. When I did look at her I noticed that she had a fit, young body--good for drawing in cocky men with a few dollars to spend and a desire to expand their sexual portfolio. How fucking presumptuous most men are. But I'm the cunt on the bleachers sitting on my foam "number one" hand because I don't like the odds, nor do I like the players. I'm a poor sport. I'm way too serious. I'm a fucking bore. I would have run out of things to say to her in less than one minute.

And as I passed by her kiosk, she began singing to the song playing over the mall sound system: "I'll stand by you." Except when she sang the lyrics they came out, "I'll stand by joo."

Foreign, yes. Attractive, sure. Availability, unknown. I make a rule of not pursuing women in relationships, but I often make some pretty egregious commandment violations with my good friends' wife no less. But that's a different story, and much like this gal at the kiosk, she led me on, made me think she wanted something to happen, and sure enough I tried to make something happen and nothing did.

And that folks is why I did nothing.