Reason: Part One

    I’d like to say it was her fault. I’d like to say a lot of things. Unfortunately, saying it doesn’t make it so. Had anyone told me where things were headed, I might have acted differently. No - things don’t change. People certainly don’t.

    Saturday nights are normally uneventful. The parties that go on are pretty standard. Walk into one and you’ll find a keg of cheap beer and equally cheap conversation. For all the boasting regarding the manipulation of the opposite sex, or the same for that matter, the kids you see at these gatherings are pretty transparent. You can always spot some idiot talking up some insipid little band in a sorry attempt to appear cultured to one of the bored women who only came for the free beer. You don’t have to look far. Not that the girls are any better, volunteering to be pawed at because they’re too insecure to live without the attention.
    Occasionally, you’ll see some guy sitting on a couch choking down beer because five dollars isn’t a bad deal if you’re in the mood to get plastered, never mind the fact it tastes like it was fermented in a toilet. You’ll find him near the stereo as the music prevents him from having to talk to anyone. Of course, eventually some girl will come sit next to him and ask if he’s having a good time, whether out of pity, curiosity, or genuine attraction, and ruin his buzz. He’ll turn his head to sneer at the girl, or maybe bring to light her myriad insecurities; whatever will get her to leave him alone. It’s irritating, but he’s done it so many times to so many women that’s it’s become as instinct. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, something about the girl’s smile, or the motherly concern hiding in her voice, or any other trivial detail appealing to his vanity will give him pause. A moment will pass, but only a moment, as this kind conceals his emotions better than most, and he’ll do something entirely out of character: he’ll smile. This is the moment things get rather entertaining.

    “So I met a girl last night.” Christ, that sounds cheesy. What the hell is wrong with me? Ugh...that sounds even worse.
    “A girl? Congratulations! We totally have to celebrate.”
    “Yeah, accomplishment of the new millennium. When’s the ticker-tape parade?”
    “Very funny. I’m sure she was simply dazzled by your sparkling wit. So what’s her name? Is she cute? Give me details.”
    “Jenny. Of course. She’s studying English Lit. Turn-ons: cooking, white wine, and Bach. Turn offs: theatre, singing, and long walks on the beach,” a witless rejoinder demonstrating my witty grasp of irony. God, I’m pathetic.
    “Cute. So am I going to get to meet this girl anytime soon? She sounds interesting.”
    “Of course not. I’m not about to scare her away right out of the gate.”
    “Absolutely hilarious. I’d love to chat longer, but I have to go. I’ll give you a call later and we can meet up for coffee or something so I can grill you more thoroughly. Bubye.”

    I’m tense. What’s wrong? This is simple. People do it all the time. But you’re not people. Sure, whatever. Okay, forget about it. Just follow her lead; she knows what she’s doing. Does she? Why am I giving her control? Oh yeah, you don’t know what you’re doing. Go back to your coffee. Smile. See? She’s smiling too. Is she really enjoying herself? This is sick. What am I doing here?

    “So how’d the date go?”
    “Alright. I don’t think I made too big a fool of myself.”
    “Says you. I’m sure you were fine. After all, you are fine.”
    “Really? Then maybe we should hook up sometime.”
    “Get real. I’m way too good for you. So when’s your next date?”
    “Not sure. She said she’d call me. You know how I hate taking responsibility for anything.”
    “Poor girl. She really has no idea what she’s getting into, does she?”
    “Am I that bad?”
    “Terrible.”

    So you might find yourself walking down the street in a fashionable commercial district, the restaurants, bars, and cafes all entreating you to enter, sit down, and drop twenty dollars. You walk past some hip coffee shop that’s trying to balance the opposing worlds of advertisement and discretion and notice an attractive young couple sipping mochas as dusk settles.
    Take a moment to watch the young lovers. Look carefully and you’ll see all sorts of interesting tells and signs. See the girl playing with her hair while the guy engages her in eye contact at almost fixed intervals? Notice how he smiles or laughs an instant after she does? He doesn’t actually find what she has to say amusing, but he doesn’t want her to notice either. This man is a predator.
    Of course, this does not indicate what kind of predator he is. Does he constantly try to maintain physical contact? Is he making an effort to touch her hands, forearms, or shoulders? Does he rest his hand on her thigh? No? Then sex probably isn’t what’s on his mind.
    This is a little trickier, but try to listen in on their conversation. Ah, there we go. He keeps asking her to follow up on personal stories. She’s having a difficult time maintaining her narrative because he keeps interrupting her, but notice how he always steers her back; he’s a keen one for details. They’re discussing their childhoods now, or hers at any rate. Look, his elbows are propped up on the table and it’s obvious she has his full attention. So what does it all mean? It’s quite simple: he’s preying on her emotions. This kind of predator is very dangerous indeed. He’ll worm his way into your heart and eat it from the inside out. It’s a shame the law is powerless against such creatures.

    I won’t reveal my methods, but I must say this is fun. Why was I so flustered last time? Oh well, what’s done is done. Is it just me or does she seem more attracted to me now that I’m playing this dirty little game of hers? At the very least, this is much more relaxing and, dare I say, enjoyable. Oh no, stop laughing or you’ll give yourself away.
    Why is it when you tell someone you’re laughing because you thought of something funny, they always insist on knowing what it is? Hmm... what was I thinking about? Ah yes, the letch over there trying to explain his malformed ideas on Christianity to that criminally young girl. She apparently finds it funny too, though not in the same sense.
    I wonder why this seems so natural. Manipulation of this kind is anything but. Perhaps these errant musings have supplanted those desires in me which derive from nature, but if nature is not the basis for our desires, what is? Ugh, snap out of it. The time for reflection will come later. Now, we must focus on the exchange at hand.

    “God, this is tedious.”
    “I’m sorry, but there’s no ‘God’ here. Perhaps you have the wrong number?”
    “Funny.”
    “I know. I’m hilarious. But seriously, haven’t you only been on two dates?”
    “Yes. Your point?”
    “Well, gee. Maybe you should give it more time?”
    “Yes, ‘it’ indeed. She certainly seems less than human.”
    “You think everyone is less than human.”
    “Huh, is that why I stay in a lot?”
    “Pah, what is it exactly about her you find so lacking?”
    “Hmm... where to begin?”
    “Never mind. Okay, you’re pretty good at amusing yourself, right?”
    “Well someone has to do it.”
    “Right, whatever. Anyway, why not just amuse yourself in her presence? You’ll continue doing whatever it is you do, but instead of brooding in the dark, you can appear more normal by brooding on a date.”
    “Oh, but I do so like the dark.”
    “So go to a warehouse club, or is black light too much for you?”
    “I don’t know. Are you sure this is such a good idea? I mean, you do know how I amuse myself?”
    “Sure I do. You like to fuck with people, which, in essence, is what dating’s all about.”
    “Wow. That was bad. That was really bad.”
    “Whatever, you love it.”
    “That I do.”

    Ah, the dance club, a place where strangers gather in the dead of night to worship the Bacchanal gods of this modern age. In elder days, worshippers would gather to offer up the burning fruits of their labor. Today, the smoky offerings are sold in packs of twenty and ensure the constant obedience of the follower.
    But I digress. The focus of our study is a pair of neophytes given over to their own faith on the dance floor. They demonstrate that the bridge between dance and foreplay is a short one indeed. She has a look of concentration on her face, purposeful in her grinding. One might even mistake it for passion. Her lips and eyes are partially parted to what she believes is a sultry effect. Unfortunately, she succeeds in only appearing drunk, which is exactly what she is.
    So what of the young man behind her? For one, he’s smiling. If you haven’t noticed already, he’s always smiling, at least when anyone is looking. He smiles when he first sees you. He smiles when he’s in pain. He even smiles when that drunken face turns to his in the darkness of the club. He smiles as he takes that lonely face trying so desperately to be alluring in his hands and bends down to kiss it, the voice of his conscience drowned out by the deluge of noise.

Continued