The man became desperate when the woman opened the door for him. They entered the Cafe, the woman in front, the man behind her.
The desperate man looked as if he had never felt the kindness of a woman. As if he had just been awakened–like he was a stocky slug trapped in a jar and she loosened the lid.
It could have been any woman who opened that door; she knew it. But he would never admit that.
She sat down with her coffee. He sat down near her with his. Yawning–a creative excuse to turn his head toward her. So, they left the cafe together. Unfortunately, he seemed to be fluent in creaks, for he heard the door open, and left immediately after. That's when she looked over her shoulder, his eyes screaming at her, realizing her anonymity had been exposed.
The heavy clog of his brain turned; the desperate man's idea felt so brilliant.
It's people like that, in a city meant to disguise, who strip away the fun.
Did he not notice her discomfort? Contorted face when he looked at her? The desperate gaze seemed to drain her away–run-off water draining into his corners.
The desperate man tried to talk to her; groping his way through her brain.
The slimy way he clung to her. Where she has to wash him off of her. Even in the biggest city of them all, he acted like a sea slug sucking her blood.
"Sorry," she seemed to squawk out, a little embarrassed for him. But she couldn't even finish; desperate he was to say something more. So much to say, so little to impress.
Now she stole the light in his eye–feeling the pang in his heart. His big forehead began to sweat in vain. I can just imagine the bitter thoughts that ran through her head. It's people like the desperate man that make me feel like such an evil person.
As always,THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.
