i do not remember large portions of my days, however, i am affected greatly by intimate details that are eventually ruined by my imagination. it was extremely cold this morning - not as cold as it has been, in fact quite tolerable for fall in the city. i believe winter does not begin until the end of november? today is november 15th, 2012. it is 51 degrees outside and i am wearing my hair short, in bouncy curls. i had meant for them to turn out like hollywood glamour icon sophia loren's - however, i am no sophia loren, and realisation of this has hindered me temporarily. even though i believe i'm beautiful, even though i see in others' eyes and faces and the turn of their mouths that they believe i am beautiful as well. i am not sophia loren. is there anything wrong with that? i am n***** *****n. is there anything wrong with that? i am wearing a nude cafe pink, in my opinion, colour of lipstick - "kinda sexy," and i'd agree. before i wore always "pink plaid" and while "pink plaid" is fun, it does not seem to attract the attention of the men i want. the kind of men who walk with their heads up and down and clutching a briefcase or bag with a specific destination in mind, with their headphones in and content to ignore everything they walk past perhaps because they are running late? perhaps because some of them are still too young to know that when they see a woman that they like, they should speak with her. because they are young and have their whole lives ahead of them, because they meet women in bars and clubs and lounges every night but those are the kind of women with whom no significant companionship ever comes. she is yours any night you want her and then she snaps, maybe i assume too much about these women who i have not met in your life, who i have only seen, who i imagine you have seen and occupy your time with. whose texts are you smiling at? there is no ring on your finger. but i get ahead of myself.
i was walking, slowly, because it is cold outside and i am not wearing socks, i am out of clean socks at this point because i have not done laundry since perhaps after the hurricane, the hurricane which was only two weeks ago so why am i out of laundry already? perhaps i have been wearing more socks because it's colder now. i hardly wear high heels, i am always running late, i would like to wear high heels but they hinder me on my way to my destination and they make my feet hurt when i am working. still my hands were not too cold, i warmed them in the ridiculous faux fur of my ridiculous scarf that makes me look prissy, and aren't i prissy? so i kept my hands warm in the ridiculous faux fur scarf that epitomises my very personality and being. i am crossing the street - sometimes in high heels i have trouble crossing the street, sometimes in short wedge boots i have trouble crossing the street because the street is uneven and not conducive to people like me who walk without ever looking where their feet are going because my eyes are too busy with other things. it seems that all of us are too busy with other things. i become too busy to notice where i am walking when i see you walking, quickly, clutching a briefcase. you are tall dark and handsome, i know it's a ridiculous descriptor that no longer says much but if one can just imagine, you are perhaps 6'2, wearing a taupe gray crosshair waist coast, in your mid to late twenties with unaffected olive skin. your hair is dark, almost black but not, i sense you are middle eastern somehow with perfectly symmetrical features and your brown eyes. your hair is long on top, gelled into place and razed at perhaps a 3 on the sides. you have a small moustache, a bit of scruff, a rugged edge in your otherwise very clean cut appearance, that suggests to me that you smoke cigarettes from time to time. the smell of cigars just wafted in through the open door and i imagine it smelling like you. i see your rugged hands, the skin there looks alright, smoother than phil's i'm sure, i can see your veins and a bit of roughness. they are strong hands. perhaps because you are always so busy writing in your notepad, jotting down details of the apartments and skyscrapers you research now on your macbook air. what else do you write about? perhaps you do not write at all, but it is too early for me to tell. all i know is that your headphones have been in this entire time, you have looked down at your phone and chuckled on some occasions and i wonder to whose messages you chuckle. you send an e-mail. to a client, i'm sure, from the websites you've visited i gather that you are a real estate agent somehow. i wonder if that job gives you pleasure or if it only gives you money. i'm sure you enjoy the glamour of showing apartments and lofts and skyscrapers around manhattan, but i wonder what occupation you'd choose if it guaranteed you whatever salary you'd like.
before you logged onto the internet i wondered if you had much money. you were trying to log onto the wi-fi, apparently they charge here at this cafe which i've never been to before. you put in a username and password, which tells me you have done this before, you have paid for access to their wi-fi, a practice which i find pretentious. wi-fi should be free. i am sure, however, that people still frequent this place as happily as they would starbucks, despite the lack of free wi-fi here. i admit i followed you here. i saw you went in and i began to walk by, until i stopped and stared at the door, stared at you inside, backtracked and went in myself. i stood away from the counter, staring bemused at the digitalised, everchanging menu above my head and wondering what kind of tea i would like. i do not like tea, i followed you into a tea place because i like you. i did not know that you'd bring me muse, i figured i would only enjoy the company of your beauty for a moment and you'd either make conversation with me, or we'd both depart immediately without ever saying a word to one another. i realise i did not sit in the best spot for you to strike up conversation with me. i sat behind you, when, i could have sat next to you, at the centralised table in sitting area that is large enough to be impersonal but compact enough so that conversation would have flowed fine, if we so chose. i could have sat there, but i immediately wonder if it would have made a difference because i don't look my most beautiful today. i am beautiful every day, but today it is sour, because i am impersonating sophia loren, i am trying to find someone else's beauty even though i have my own, don't i have my own? an asian woman walks by me, perhaps she is in her mid thirties, and she is absolutely beautiful, i know vienn would think so. but i have my own beauty. i left it at home today.
you are in a very well tailored, navy suit, a light blue collared shirt and a tie that is some colour i don't remember. your boots are dark brown, your waist coat is taupe gray and your bag has almost a khaki hint. altogether, you look very well. you are a very handsome man. you raise your left hand to your temple and i can't see whether or not you have a wedding bang, but i do see that you have a bracelet on. it seems to be an impermanent bracelet, and i imagine, because you seem somehow middle eastern to me, that it is something for diwali. i think i catch a glimpse of a wedding band on your ring finger. i wonder what your wife looks like. i'm sure she is beautiful, i wonder if she is smart. i know she is charming, probably more so than i am. hopefully as genuine as i am. i don't know your name and i don't know your life but i have assumed much about it, and you; now my fantasy is over, but it has been over anyway. because this morning i woke up and i wanted someone else's beauty.
i love you, sophia loren, you are an incredible woman. but you are not me. i cannot waste my time trying to be you, because then who is left to be me? i think i am an incredible woman.