i notice you.

 

i can't help it. you pass by--airport, museum, park, street, whatever--and my mind just...wonders. why here? why today? why now?

 

it's OK. you don't have to explain. there is that...unspoken understanding between us. so please, don't let me bother you. i was just noticing.

 

wait. one question. what exactly was going through your head when you got dressed this morning? [i do apologize for the unqualified assumption that you dress in the morning. though i don't retract the statement. unqualified assumptions are my right as an american.]

 

you. old man. with the bright yellow polo shirt and navy blue pajama pants. what precisely were you thinking?

 

"you look good, hector. real good."

 

whatever. it's guys like you that make fat, greasy, balding hispanics seem...well, fat, greasy, and balding. not to mention nasty--c'mon, at least button the polo.

 

and what about you, miss grey-sweatpants-and-a-camisole?

 

"with this outfit on boys can't help but stare at my stomach!"

 

maybe, but i'm not sure that was worth sacrificing the style points. like, i think you're negative now. sad thing is, your tummy might actually be pretty sexy looking. you just sorta...packaged it wrong.

 

"today, clifton, is your day."

 

maybe that did run through your head. but the horizontal stripes do nothing of value to your already grandiose figure. i think, clifton, you were lying to yourself.

 

yes, i am staring. yes, at you.

 

you, One-Glance. you seem pretty used to it. i guess girls of your...maturity level have to deal with staring a lot. but perhaps you found it a bit odd that i was staring at your eyes. is that why you looked away?

it's cause i'm a guy, isn't it? or maybe cause i'm white? maybe you've seen me before, too, and i burned you. maybe this is how you cope.

i wish could apologize. i would assure you that i haven't been myself. but you can't stop to listen. and i suppose i understand.

 

yes, Muscles. i'm looking at you, too. our eyes touched, didn't they? that was a little to intimate for a man like you, wasn't it? maybe that's why i'm repulsive to you. 'cause i'm real.

 

ah, No-Glance. hello again. you know i'm here. your peripheral vision alerts you to my uncomfortable presence, like an itch in the back that you can't seem to find. but you are a well-oiled machine. and goodness, you're the best-dressed in this whole airport. you are far above the petty distraction i provide.

 

and then there was you. Glance-and-Stare. i live for you. you're not just noticed, you notice right back. you...wonder. you, like me, want to know--my thoughts, my feelings, my life. why are you always so much younger than the rest?

"why is he sitting there, daddy?" you ask No-Glance. he lives up to his name, and yet still responds.

"i don't know, son."

"what is he writing?"

i don't get to hear daddy's answer. you keep walking. i can guess, though.

"nothing important."

 

maybe you're right, No-Glance. maybe this is an excercise in futility. maybe i don't deserve the Glance-and-Stares, like your son. but i guess you wouldn't really know, would you? you don't know me. your son does.

 

all i want--all i really want--is to be noticed.