I was at the bar the other day. Not sure which bar on which day, but the devil is in the details so I try to forget them.
Anyway, I was at the bar and a grown man playing Pokemon on his iPhone looked up at me as I strode by him. He took one glance before resuming his quest of capturing monsters.
I, like him, have trouble figuring out what to say to people if I accidentally make eye contact.
With my breath held, his sweaty eyes beaming into mine, the awkwardness, the itchiness, it was soon over when he turned back to his game.
I exhaled. Whew. Thank you for turning away.
My day is littered with these little moments. Or episodes I should say. They vary in degree’s of severity.
I find my friends sitting at a table and I join them. I join them by sitting down and politely sipping my beer while listening to them talk and balk and…..make eye contact. The more eye contact is made, the politeness of my sips become more and more aggressive. Beer dribbles down my chin and onto my shirt. I excuse myself to the restroom to tidy up but I’m not actually tidying up. I’m making eye contact with myself in the mirror.
Eye contact with myself is my specialty. I can do it for long stretches at a time before my face starts to look distorted in my peripherals.
“It’s just eye contact Melanie. The windows to the soul, the depths and breadths of man, truth incarnate, intimacy. A commitment to either do or don’t.”
After my secret pep talk, I rejoin the others in our shared quest to see who is the funniest and wittiest in the bunch and crown them king or queen for the night by bequeathing them with unrelenting eye contact.