The arm is long, the fingers gracefully curling, beckoning.
"Come shop with me. Please. Please?"
The questioning tone of the last word tells me she's already giving up hope for a pleasant, shared moment together.
Even before he speaks he's told her he's not interested.
His eyes turn to his Blackberry, fingers dancing, calling up letters on its screen.
"Nah. I'm going to ... yeah .... nah."
More meaning than I can bear is shouting from the meaningless syllables.
Her arm floats down, slowly. She is tall, willowy, demure; attractive, not alluring. Her features are elfin, bright eyes, a smile that comes easily, readily, grown by repeated joy, perhaps even before she was born.
But as he turns, heads for the mall couches, she is suddenly left in the middle of a gesture, a movement suddenly robbed of its meaning. Somehow her fire has been starved of just a little of its oxygen.
I want to shout, to storm over to him, grab him by the collar of his golf shirt, shake him.
If a spirit like that had asked me to do the least thing with her I'd crawl over broken glass to help - hold the bags, carry the boxes, give my opinions, hell, I'd even tell the truth about how those jeans made her bottom look.
Well, maybe not that far.
But far enough.
I think, in large part, we make our own oxygen for the fires of our souls. A large part of that also comes from each other, that if we're smart we surround ourselves with people that encourage us to be ourselves.
Not all of them need to be a rah-rah bunch of cheerleaders but some level of support, some sense that someone out there is trying to make you more yourself .... well, that just helps a lot.
I had to leave for home and never found out if the girl had managed to get the guy interested .... but the image of her arm, the grace with which she asked and the brusqueness of his answer amazed me. I see so many people who just don't listen to what is in front of their noses.
I hope they both are OK - him and her.
Portland
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