There he is, sitting alone meekly at one of the outside tables. Through the fogged café window I can see his flat white clamped in one hand, the page of a music magazine being flipped effortlessly by the other.
My heart flutters. My chest feels compacted, heartbeat quick and wary, like my immune system is begging for something to harm me just so it can attempt to fight the bad away.
I watch him. His long sleeves draped thoughtfully over his dainty, tanned hands. Veins stretching down his long, delicate fingers. "Artist's hands" my mum would say. I like hands. His in particular. Studying further...I have never seen him wear that hat before, sitting black and crooked on his head, revealing one ear to the unforgiving, chilling winter wind. It looks almost comical.
I scan through images and clips of him stored in my mind. Scanning, scanning. Where I have previously seen him. Scanning. What clothing he had been wearing on these occasions. Scan, scan. In the op shop, passing me on the street, reading in the library. Pointed shoes, black jeans, scarves, cardigans.
And I notice how each of those times he had looked right through me, through everyone else and anything else that surrounded him. Not through arrogance or ignorance, but simply because he was in a world of his very own. This fact meant that I could watch him. Intently. Without so much as a sideways glance from him, I could study his every move.
He sniffs. His eyes shoot from his coffee to the sidewalk and then back again. Spider fingers dance from their stationary position, across the table to his pack of tobacco. The level of his coffee is unchanged from when he first sat down. Untouched. He begins to roll. Do I know that he smokes?
Caught in a dream-like state, I replay the first time I ever saw him through in my mind. My brain focuses in on minor details, details that would usually go unnoticed if I were anyone else; if he were anyone else.
He had been sitting at the bus stop, scribbling into a small, brown journal. I remember strongly the feelings of curiosity I had felt while watching him scrawling away, appearing completely unaware of his surroundings. Mouth held tight. Eyebrows furrowed. Umbrella leant near. A pair of sunglasses had been concealing his eyes.
That was the day my obsession began forming. That beautiful man, whom up until that point I had never come across before, had then been only meters away from me at that bus stop. He had been displayed like a present awaiting the unwrapping of my eager, shaking hands. If only I had been brave enough to approach him that day. If only I'd had an inkling of courage or the smallest touch of spontaneity in my blood.
Since that moment of visual introduction his ghostly, unworldly presence has been haunting my day to day life. If not by sharing the same footpath as myself and stealing my attention, he does so by controlling my thoughts, clouding my mind like a thick, comforting blanket of mist. Beautiful, engulfing, awesome mist.
This beautiful man is so significant that he has fallen victim to one of my ever so creative, observational nicknames. His: Glasses Man. Rain or shine, Glasses Man stayed true to his name. I had once wondered if he planned in advance a different pair of glasses for every encounter the two of us shared. I hoped in some estranged, distorted manner that his thoughts were as messed up as my own.
Time spent thinking of him had, from that point onwards, begun overtaking the time I spent contemplating anything else. Even now, sitting at this café I can't take my eyes off him. I can't focus on my food. Not when I have his mesmerising presence so close to me. A full swing obsession. It has to stop. But do I want it to?
Glasses Man keeps me from feeling any real emotions aside from lust and wonder. In my internal fairytale, my perfectly crafted world of make-believe, he is all I could ever wish for. He is thoughtful, compassionate and so blissfully unaware of the impact he has on me; the dangerous desire I have for him. So much so that my feelings only grow stronger.
And now, here at this small wooden table, only a sheet of glass and a few feet separating us, my fairytale is bringing itself to a close. The words ‘happily ever after' loom just out of reach, floating above my head, teasing, amongst a cluster of question marks. I'm surrounded by a blur of confusion and the unknown.
I suddenly have the urge to press a rubber past my lips; see if I can erase, like a pencilled mistake, the words I had earlier spoken so carelessly. I have made a friend of mine as well as myself a promise that if, by chance, I saw him again today I would find the confidence roaming somewhere inside myself to approach him.
Give him my name and hope for his in return. Now here he is, so unsuspecting and innocent, soft lips pursing as they come into contact with his so carefully rolled cigarette. Artist's hands. Nice hands.
I feel like a lion stalking its prey as I gather my things. Gather my bags. Gather my thoughts. I hope so badly that I will not trip over my shoelaces, nor my words as I approach him.
A mixture of caution, ‘what ifs' and fears of rejection take utter control of my mannerisms and I quiver nervously from head to toe. Small yet powerful convulsions shake me. My thoughts are weighed down with the mist of Glasses Man; this simple man and his glasses.
He takes a sip of his drink as his dark eyes search around him curiously. His long, black eyelashes crash into his deep brown, feathered fringe. I swallow sympathetically in time with him as he continues to mechanically, yet thoughtfully gulp his cold coffee.
The lion stalks its prey...I draw closer, I bare my teeth, I shudder in anticipation. "Hello," I scratch, throat in dire need of clearing, "My name's Lily." Lion outstretches its clawed paw. He takes my hand in his and shakes it. Mist surrounds me. I breathe it deep into my lungs.
"Hi," he chirps, "I'm Oscar."
- Zoe Bourke, Year 13 student, Logan Park.
