Therefore I was anxious to analyze what he was wearing, what he was carrying, and any other potentially remarkable external manifestations of eccentricity. I turned the corner, now just a half block from my building, and studied the shots.
Initially, all I saw was a guy who looked like Colin Farrell with a strange-looking, albeit small, apparatus strapped to his back, his feet in those godawful toe-shoes that make the wearer look like a hobbit. His shirt was lime green, skin tight, highlighting his impressively muscled physique, and appeared to be made of Lycra; his thighs were corded and thick, plainly visible because he wore spandex—black spandex, not lime green.
On 99.9% of people, this outfit would have looked completely ridiculous. But not on this guy. He looked hot. Really, really hot.
However, during my second, third, and fourth perusals—and especially in the pictures where his face was turned toward the natural light of the windows—I noted something remarkable about his eyes. Though his mouth held a wide, welcoming grin, his eyes struck me as sad. Terribly, terribly sad. And when I say “struck me,” I mean his eyes made my steps falter and slow, and caused a sudden involuntary intake of breath.
Here was this guy, physical perfection, obviously living a charmed life, walking around with mesmerizingly sad, soulful eyes. They were the kind of eyes that pull you in, ensnare you, bind you, hold you and your focus and your priorities hostage.
They took my breath away.
Some strange, long-dormant, and heavily suppressed instinct urged me to run back to the restaurant and wrap him in my arms. My heart gave a little twist. I wanted to kiss away his hurts…or at least make his hurts some cookies.
I shook myself, forcing my feet to move purposefully forward toward home, where I intended to bury these arresting and unwelcome instinctual reactions.
The critic in me reassessed the image and couldn’t ignore the toe-shoes, the lime green workout shirt, or the spandex—SPANDEX!—shorts. Even the top 1% of good-looking men should know better than to wear spandex shorts outside of a sporting event.
Just…no.
Sad and soulful notwithstanding, this man needed an intervention.
Although, spandex is nice for highlighting….
Struck by sudden curiosity, and because I am a red-blooded woman, I zoomed in on the area of his groin.
That’s right, I’m a reclusive pervert, and I make no apologies for it. And, giving the matter some thought, a reclusive pervert is much preferable to an extroverted pervert. I might also be a tad sexually starved, since I avoid all physical, real-life human interaction.
Just a tad.
I walked past my doorman and into my building, keeping my attention fixed on the phone as I studied the bulge in the man’s spandex running shorts. Tearing my bottom lip between my teeth, I boarded the elevator and tried another picture; in this one, he was angled toward the window, half facing the camera. I zoomed in a bit more.
“Whatever you’re looking at must be really interesting.”
I jumped back and away from the voice, sucking in a startled breath, jostling the bag of takeout in my hand, and clutching my phone to my chest. I hadn’t realized that I was not alone on the elevator.
I found him, my companion, looking at me with an amused smile. His blue eyes were suspicious, but good-natured, slits. I recognized him immediately as my very tall, very nice-looking, ambiguously single next-door neighbor.
Ambiguously single because he always had a date, but it was never the same lady friend twice.
I didn’t blame him, not at all. By all outward appearances, this guy was a hot commodity. Impeccably tailored designer suit and Italian leather shoes that announced both power and wealth; a chiseled jaw beneath perfectly formed lips framing stunningly white teeth; strong nose, bright blue eyes, expertly spiked and shaped blond hair. He looked like the type that subscribed to a beauty regimen. I was pretty sure his eyebrows were plucked and shaped by a professional.
I guesstimated his age as just cresting thirty; hard to tell with the meterosexualizing of his appearance. Add to all this a body that reminded me of a cyclist or a runner—lean and well-maintained—and he was a well-groomed wolf in wolf’s clothing, and the females in Manhattan were helpless sheep.
After two seconds of stunned staring, I ripped my eyes from his amused half-lidded gaze and blinked around the mirrored space, trying to get my bearings.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry; in fact, I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh. “Sorry I scared you.”
I shook my head, my phone still clutched to my chest, and fixed my attention on the floor of the elevator.
“It’s fine. I was just startled,” I said, swallowing.
We were quiet for a beat, but I could feel his eyes on me. I glanced at the display above the floor buttons, trying to gauge how much longer I was going to have to share the elevator with Mr. Ambiguously Single.
To my dismay, he spoke again. “You’re Annie, right?”
I nodded, my eyes flickering to the side to glance at him and then back to the display.
“I’m your neighbor Kurt.” In my peripheral vision, I saw that he’d turned completely toward me and offered his hand.
I glanced at him again, at his friendly, easy smile and friendly, easy eyes. Then I glanced at the takeout bag in my right hand and the phone held to my chest. I seriously debated whether or not to shrug and say nothing.
See, the problem with being a really well-paid hermit is that you have no incentive to ascribe to social niceties and norms. My company loves me (most of the time); the clients love me—they love the magic I work. I seldom go into the office—only Wednesdays and Fridays. I have an office; I just prefer to work from home.
I’m not agoraphobic. I go out in public, I walk five miles in the park every day, I love the Natural History Museum and visit once a week; as well, I frequent places where celebrities are typically spotted, so I can get shots for the blog. Being a lurker doesn’t require social interaction. Yes, I often people-watch, but I’ve long since learned to bury the feelings of envy at seeing scenes of human connection, like clusters of women, close friends, sharing an afternoon of compassion and confidence, or a loving couple holding hands through the park.
Therefore, if I speak—in person—to more than ten people during any given week, then it’s been an above-average week.
Nevertheless, some part of me rebelled against being rude. I might contemplate becoming a wackadoodle recluse in my brain, but I could never fully commit to the role. Therefore, I shifted my belongings, placed my phone—with the crotch shot—in my bag, and accepted his hand for a quick shake.
But it wasn’t a quick shake. His fingers tightened around mine until I lifted my eyes to his and relaxed my hand. His gaze was expectant, interested, his smile soft and really very attractive. I was wary as to why he was wielding both in my direction.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Annie.” He sounded like he meant it.
I returned his smile as best as I could, felt my eyebrows lift on my forehead. “You, too, Kurt.”
“We should get together some time. Get to know each other.” He said these words in a rush, almost like he was afraid I might disappear before he finished speaking.
“Yeah.” I nodded, trying to mimic his intonation of sincerity. “Sure. We should do that.”
Thankfully, the doors opened. I took advantage of the distraction to pull my hand from his and dart out of the elevator. Of course, he was close behind since we both lived on the same floor.
“You know, we’ve lived next door for going on two years, and this is the first time we’ve spoken to each other?” He asked this conversationally with a lilt of humor in his voice.
“Hmm,” was all I said, placing my takeout on the floor and digging in my bag for my key.