A Control, A Refuse

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Keep stealing glances to one way or another, just to know I’m there… Twist himself on the chair just to see and turn back.

Control. Is it all about that? Maybe that’s why he insists so much in being present, offering me popcorn or helping me with my chair. It's not unusual, could be like that, that’s no problem in that, friends supposed to be like that. But he isn’t only like that! And that’s why I can’t help myself from hating the moments when he walks with me, when I can clearly listen to its pace. His annoying walking with one foot dragging towards the other…

How it saddens me.

Too bad he’s taller than me, too bad he’s larger than me. I don’t like the way he imposes himself when next to me. I don’t like the intimidation, I don’t like the oh so innocent touches, I don’t like him. And I’ll be doomed before I find the courage to tell it in his face.

What did I do to deserve it? I don’t have the answer from life, the universe and everything else… I don’t have the power to make anyone better – if I have a power, is to make people worse – I don’t have the body or the face or the hair that could bewitch anyone into silent gaze. But yet he insists into watching me. Better it would be if he kept his eyes discreetly onto me, but he’s everything but it! And his whole body leans in my direction like I was a powerful magnet for attraction. And he insists on talking, and he insists in watching and he insists on me, when he probably should give up like sometimes I think he already did.

And he insists in seeing whatever I’m doing whenever I’m doing it, whether am I silently thinking or scribbling fastly in my notebook notes I wouldn’t show him. And he scans his eyes on my body whether to my fingers whether in my chest. And he turns his face to look to this notes and then turn away. Away from my absent eyes when this commonly happens. I sigh and he attention turns to my face trying to read it until I push him away.

He don’t get the tip, man, is he ever gonna? And he complains when I don’t follow him, even more when I don’t talk, so he eagerly, constantly looks at me, waiting for me to smile, wanting to see me laugh. And when I thought he – finally! – understand what I want, he sits on the chair behind me, and leans, and leans, and leans even more, till I can feel his breathing in my neck – maybe I should let my hair loose on times like these? – And he is too close to me, and my neck fully exposed is too close from him and it infuriates me because he is too damn close for my comfort, but it is vain to complain, I can easily put my chair in a good distance, and he would pull his closer to mine, till the point they crashed and startled me.

Oh it has no end…

And he sings!… Gods he sings… Graphic songs that no one should. Turning to me when he does, What should I think when “I just need your body babe, from dusk till dawn” echoes in my ears?

Disturbing, too damn disturbing listen to his new infatuation when he choose a terribly un-didactic position to be next to my chair. Please oh please, I beg this’ only from his head-down-writing. A chill runs down my spine to even think he’s trying to smell me trough my neck. And he stays close when I’m talking to someone else, and he stays even closer when we’re just hanging around, and he sits towards me and he stretches widely his legs in my direction… But never did he actual touch me…

I want to groan in frustration…

Am I this a strange character that could somehow resemble a goddess? Am I this intriguing, this interesting, this unusual and eccentric that he has to look at me every minute or so? Just to make sure I won’t fade away the next moment? Only once did he actually touched other than a light brush of fingers and I didn’t flinch like I thought I would. He asked me to dance with him, as I were trying to teach a friend a few steps.

He touched my waist and I took his hands and two steps left, two steps right was a bit too obvious thing to do, but surprisingly difficult to him, as he didn’t know the rhythm. I didn’t care, I shouldn’t care, I would teach him if he wanted to. My left hand was on his shoulder and two palms separated our bodies, and this shouldn’t feel uncomfortable at all, that is until I saw his face. His puppy wide eyes and dumb smile. Clearly his eyes were shifting a lot more lower than my eyes line and clearly the hand on my waist wasn’t been used to conduce the dance.

This is an invasion, I'm not a piece of art on a exposé that anyone can look countless times, nor am I for sale. I hate it, I hate it, i hate it. Gosh I'm not a shining star, I'm not the moon, I'm not the ocean or the mountain; I am just me, not some unexplain phenomenon of nature. Please the ones that hold doubts on that matter keep your mouth shut, this is not the subject in discussion right now.

Why, I wonder why, after all this time he still looking? What could he possibly see of change? How long does he still going to persist until he sees that I'm only made of flesh and bones? Whom did he think he are to be the one to tell me "relax babe"? I am relaxed, I tense when he says those things.

It's not a seduction technique, not in this case; holding back, walking away doesn't mean deny something. I'm not denying anything at all: I do not like him. It is not love or shyness and not even curiosity.

I'm not a goddess. I get sick, I don't forgive easily, I make mistake, I hardly forget, I bled! What more am I capable to do to show him I'm a normal, regular girl? And I don't think. Gods I mustn't be capable, why else should anything explain my desire to write this down in english, the international language, when I don't want him to read it? Goodnesess' sake I'm clearly not the only person that can read it, and yet I wrote like this, hoping he can't read...

What a swell party this is... I was supposed to be comprehensable, supporting, instead I pity him to be after a friend that don't know what to do... I would prefer that he made up his mind, its not good for me to ramble, you know? I'm usually mistaken by crazy when I do it. But I'm rambling a lot right now, this isn't only about a single person.

"Him" is not my problem, but every "they" that tries oh so hard to be noticed. In small little things. Annoying me for instance, it's a terrible choice. Ridiculous, childish, triggers an undying exasperation course trough my veins... I don't like to be controled, I don't like to be watched with intensity...

I wish he would make his choice, or at least be more explicit. Over looks makes me nervous and sometimes could be considered an invasion by my part. I'm crazy, and i may be selfish, but I like my shelfish protected; and it probably would be best for him to be away from me.

The urge to talk, the want of been noticed, the long to be listened... its killing me, for I can't give him what he want, and I can't try if he can't say it.

Latly it seems like he has learned the lesson. Perhaps. The so called control isn't constant as it once was, but the time – too long of a time – made it seem more adequate, more welcoming. From both sides words are spoken sometimes before tought and harsh comments doesn't seem to be taken care.

It's been a while almost a year from now. A lot has changed: not more does he sits next to me, or walks with me by own resolution, it's been forever since the last day he wished me 'good morning' and even more that he asked me 'what's up?'.

Perhaps the spell has broken. And perhaps that's the only reason I'm posting this text. Because neither the sorceress nor the mortal can be harm anymore.

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I don’t have the answer from life, the universe and everything else…is based on the books of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

“I just need your body babe, from dusk till dawn” it's a fragment of the song Kiss by Prince

What a swell party this is... Also a fragment of a song. This one by Cole Porter, the best american songwriter in my opinion – he's amazing – I don't remember the name of the soung tough

It's Been A While is by Staind. Technically there has nothing to do with the text, but while I was writing, this phrase stuck on my head and I was desperate to find out who sang.