Monday, September 05, 2005
How do you look at a guy?
Two different groups of writers, two very different outings.
One event captured in photographs galore, and even a video blog entry. The Singapore Writers Festival, sia. Hype. Media. Bright lights. Not so much a gathering, as a parade.
The other a cosy gathering of now-friends (and a mad woman) starting the evening with a, uh, "loaded" herbal drink. Was war es... ein LugerMeister, oder PanzerGeneral?
Lots of laughter, pina coladas (I'm a sucker for those), long island tea (yech), bacon (watch The Island...) and double entente / sexual innuendo galore (mostly from the woman whose wildest act ever in her life was skipping an exam...)
... ah yes, and telling a literature major that she should be a literature teacher. sigh. Foot in mouth syndrome.
Something about bad impressions, and very sexy swimsuits with no material at all. Hmm, and underwear.
Pool. She had a confident stance and an easy action (eh that sounds really dodgy) - she had played before and it was apparent. With time, forgotten skills would cleary return. He watched her play, and shook his head slightly sometimes when she looked up for "advice" -- she could handle her own already, and there was nothing he could teach her that she didn't already know.
She had an aggressive stance and hit the ball haaard. Sorta like the way she hit him earlier in the day. He couldn't help but notice all the muscley muscles under the tanned skin... whimper. He wasn't gonna give this one advice, oh nono. Might cost him an arm or an ear. Best to just hide away out of reach of her cue, and her cue ball...
She spent the evening at another table, mostly. When they played she was clearly exhausted, but watching her eyes tracing the paths of shots before they were made... she clearly knew what she was doing.
She was feeling self conscious, clearly. To start out with, she felt like she didn't know how to play, and so she couldn't.
He, and they chipped in, giving her helpful advice on where to hit the side cushions just-so so that the ball would rebound off it and pot something else... she did it remarkably well. Then even more remarkably... she started doing it on her own, without need for advice.
As the evening wore on, she relaxed, and much to his horror, he found that she was actually becoming damn good. damn fast. Oh dear... this looks bad for me... laugh. (shark! shark!!)
Two different groups of writers. Two separate events.
One preserved in hype and photographs...
The other preserved in words, and fond memories.
It stops to make you think, doesn't it?
*****
He re-read the words.
Sometimes it almost seemed as if someone else had written them... they were too well written. Writing about Her somehow made him outreach his abilities, and find something more.
They'd often shared something unspoken, something almost magical. He figured it was all coming from Her. She could speak with her eyes; when a perfect sitcom joke cropped up he'd find himself glancing at her, only to find her glancing back. Do you want to call this one, or shall I?
He read a little more, and stopped when it began to overwhelm him again.
Too vivid, too fresh, too here.
The light on Your face; the colour of Your eyes...
Reminiscence.
*****
He met her eyes - a stranger's eyes - and his gaze was held for a moment. Then she glanced down, as did he. Then, almost furtively, he looked up again - and again she was watching him... with a trace of a smile
Afternoon conversation barely remembered.... drowsing as all systems began to shut down :
How do you look at a guy?
(shocked) Pardon?
How do you, you know, check him out? Do you look at him till you get his attention, or would you rather just admire him from a distance and rather he not catch you looking? And if he catches you looking, will you keep looking at him to let him know you're keen... or will you look away, and then look back, to keep him guessing? (sic)
(shocked) PARDON!?
laugh.
One event captured in photographs galore, and even a video blog entry. The Singapore Writers Festival, sia. Hype. Media. Bright lights. Not so much a gathering, as a parade.
The other a cosy gathering of now-friends (and a mad woman) starting the evening with a, uh, "loaded" herbal drink. Was war es... ein LugerMeister, oder PanzerGeneral?
Lots of laughter, pina coladas (I'm a sucker for those), long island tea (yech), bacon (watch The Island...) and double entente / sexual innuendo galore (mostly from the woman whose wildest act ever in her life was skipping an exam...)
... ah yes, and telling a literature major that she should be a literature teacher. sigh. Foot in mouth syndrome.
Something about bad impressions, and very sexy swimsuits with no material at all. Hmm, and underwear.
Pool. She had a confident stance and an easy action (eh that sounds really dodgy) - she had played before and it was apparent. With time, forgotten skills would cleary return. He watched her play, and shook his head slightly sometimes when she looked up for "advice" -- she could handle her own already, and there was nothing he could teach her that she didn't already know.
She had an aggressive stance and hit the ball haaard. Sorta like the way she hit him earlier in the day. He couldn't help but notice all the muscley muscles under the tanned skin... whimper. He wasn't gonna give this one advice, oh nono. Might cost him an arm or an ear. Best to just hide away out of reach of her cue, and her cue ball...
She spent the evening at another table, mostly. When they played she was clearly exhausted, but watching her eyes tracing the paths of shots before they were made... she clearly knew what she was doing.
She was feeling self conscious, clearly. To start out with, she felt like she didn't know how to play, and so she couldn't.
He, and they chipped in, giving her helpful advice on where to hit the side cushions just-so so that the ball would rebound off it and pot something else... she did it remarkably well. Then even more remarkably... she started doing it on her own, without need for advice.
As the evening wore on, she relaxed, and much to his horror, he found that she was actually becoming damn good. damn fast. Oh dear... this looks bad for me... laugh. (shark! shark!!)
Two different groups of writers. Two separate events.
One preserved in hype and photographs...
The other preserved in words, and fond memories.
It stops to make you think, doesn't it?
*****
He re-read the words.
Sometimes it almost seemed as if someone else had written them... they were too well written. Writing about Her somehow made him outreach his abilities, and find something more.
They'd often shared something unspoken, something almost magical. He figured it was all coming from Her. She could speak with her eyes; when a perfect sitcom joke cropped up he'd find himself glancing at her, only to find her glancing back. Do you want to call this one, or shall I?
He read a little more, and stopped when it began to overwhelm him again.
Too vivid, too fresh, too here.
The light on Your face; the colour of Your eyes...
Reminiscence.
*****
He met her eyes - a stranger's eyes - and his gaze was held for a moment. Then she glanced down, as did he. Then, almost furtively, he looked up again - and again she was watching him... with a trace of a smile
Afternoon conversation barely remembered.... drowsing as all systems began to shut down :
How do you look at a guy?
(shocked) Pardon?
How do you, you know, check him out? Do you look at him till you get his attention, or would you rather just admire him from a distance and rather he not catch you looking? And if he catches you looking, will you keep looking at him to let him know you're keen... or will you look away, and then look back, to keep him guessing? (sic)
(shocked) PARDON!?
laugh.
