It's Ladies' Night

I need to move to France, where I hear they've perfected the art of The Stare. The Stare is as close to flirting without actually speaking as one could get. Many times in my head have I visualized myself performing The Stare, and on some occasions, I've actually acted it out (to mixed results). Problem is, France feels like a million miles away from where I am now, and it costs just as much to get there.

Tonight, I tried The Stare on a man who was playing Coldplay's Trouble when I walked in the establishment. He had a beautiful singing voice, quiet and earnest and with feeling. It got me a bit choked up (well that and I misplaced the CD months ago and miss it terribly). When he finished his set and a gaggle of girls surrounded him like the Wall of China, I still sat there, as steadfast as could be. I was working up the nerve to do The Stare. I took sips of my drink (it had been sweating on the table and now dropping beads of perspiration on my shirt) and when I saw a break in the Wall, I took my chance and leapt to my feet, forgetting about the splotches on my shirt, forgetting I had chapped lips and would probably be licking and biting them nervously, forgetting that I really had no plans of saying anything to him other than, "So you like Coldplay?"

I stood, feeling like I was in line for a book-signing, and I was clutching my purse like it was his first novel. I moved closer until I could hear his conversation with the girls. They were talking about Coldplay. And how much he liked them. So there was no point in asking my question, which would not only be redundant, but thoughtless. Of course he liked them, that's why he covered their songs. Duh.

Just as I turned to leave for something inconspicuous like the bathroom or a dark corner, I caught his eye. And held that gaze for the space of two seconds before turning back to the girls. It almost stopped me from leaving, but it was just that, after all. A casual, off-hand glance that didn't mean anything. So I shifted my purse from one arm to the other and prepared to slunk off when he looked up again at me. I felt compelled to look back as well. He was still talking to the girls, at this point I wasn't close enough to hear what he was saying anymore. I looked back at him for a triumphant four seconds, and waited. He didn't move from his spot. True, there were girls still around him like a militant blockade, but he could've excused himself to the bathroom or something. The point is, he stayed where he was, and so did I. Well actually, I left and now here I am kicking myself repeatedly for having moved at all.

But there is a small, though significant, outcome in all of this, and that was the almost-imperceptible glance that we had exchanged in the first place. Take heart, Trish, France may not be so far away after all.