I was once beset by a woman. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, but she was the type you’d pass by on the street and do a double take for. Well, not everyone would, but most men on average. I’ve seen women look her up and down, too.
I’ve seen her around the parking lot probably a million times over the past two years. I’d be in the smoking area, hanging with some colleagues. She notices me, of course—probably because of how much I stare at her every time she walks by. Whenever she passes by my crowd, every one of us goes silent. But when she’s gone, we don’t say anything; we just go back to our business, talking about women and things happening in our daily lives.
Sometimes one or two of my colleagues would comment that the girl was cute or sexy or attractive, then go back to being men—rowdy. I don’t say anything, but I watch her. Not in a stalking way. I just watch her whenever I get the chance. Whenever we’re in the same room. In the parking lot, where the smoking area is in the same place. In the little hallway she passes by, adjacent to the smoking area.
My shift starts earlier than hers, so I can’t miss her there, as it’s the only entrance from the parking lot out to the courtyard and into the building. I watch her in the courtyard too, where I often see her with her colleagues eating their lunch leisurely, talking and laughing, while I pass by going to the smoking area with my colleagues. My eyes automatically search for her when I’m in these areas. I easily spot her. Sometimes I already know she’s there before I even see her.
I get excited. I get flustered. I grow quieter every time she’s around. I grow anxious when a day goes by and I don’t see her. When the universe is nice to me, sometimes I get to ride the elevator with her in it.
When that happens, I find it difficult to breathe, like I’ve forgotten how the mechanics of it work. I only remember when my lungs are close to collapsing. I hope she doesn’t hear me gasping. She’s too close. I worry she hears my heart almost thumping out of my pecs. I feel sweat slowly building up in my pits. I feel her body heat on my left arm—she’s beside me. I’m dying from restraining myself from brushing my arm against hers. I almost feel envy for my shirt sleeve for brushing against her shoulder.
I steal quick glances at her and notice her discomfort and awkwardness too. She’s probably thinking, oh, this creep again who keeps looking at me. I don’t know. Somehow her discomfort doesn’t feel hostile. It’s like she’s almost as nervous as I am. She knows I stare at her, but somehow, at some point, she started being curious. She would sometimes stare back at me. It’s not unkind, but rather full of interest. She’d tilt her head a little to the side, and sometimes I’d catch a faint smile.
Sometimes I catch her already looking at me before I could look at her—stealing glances at me too.
Here I am, a man in his 30s. I watch her and I feel a kind of way—the way you feel on a first date when you’re still a schoolboy. That feeling when you don’t know whether a kiss at the end of the night would be okay or not. I’ve never felt this way since then. Dating after that felt like a routine: the talking stage, the texting, the getting to know each other, etc. Of course, the excitement and giddiness are there, but not like the first time you experience it. This was closer to that.
When did I start breaking out into a cold sweat whenever she was near? When did I start jolting at the surprise of suddenly seeing her in the same room?
The first time I saw her, it was during my lunch break. I was with a colleague then. We took a late lunch and went to our usual place just a few steps outside the building. She was alone, probably on her lunch break too. We walked past each other, and I remember how my eyes followed her. She was cute—plump cheeks and lips, hair long and wavy. I loved the way the wind played with it and made it sway around her face. It was captivating, and I just couldn’t look away.
She was wearing loose, casual jeans and a tight top—not overly tight. She looked good. She could pull off many fashion aesthetics too; my personal favorite was when she went for a subtle goth look: a long skirt with a high slit, boots, and a cute top to match. She also looked at me that time, probably wondering why I was staring. I wasn’t very subtle about showing my interest, you see. But for two years, I settled for just that—just looking at her. I never said hi. I don’t know. I never found the courage. I’d probably short-circuit.
The second time I saw her, many weeks had already passed. She was coming out of the ladies’ room, and I was heading the same way to the men’s room. It was a long hallway. I had several seconds to stare at her while we walked past each other. She was wearing glasses, and oh my god—she already looked cute without them, so when I saw her in them, it felt like a vein popped in my head.
She also had on a cute outfit: an overall denim jumpsuit and a sleeveless black top. Cute, I tell you! As usual, my gaze followed her, and she looked at me too. She probably thought, bathroom creep.
I watch her when she’s alone. I watch her when she’s with a crowd. She looks different in both—different energy, but all the same fascinating to me. When she’s with her usual crowd, she’s sunshine, talking and laughing. When she’s alone, she’s a dark cloud. In her group, she always hangs back, stays in the rear. It made me notice how I always walk ahead of my group. She uses her crowd to hide.
When she’s alone, she’s hyper-aware, mindful of her movements. Always conscious, shy. She looks down, looks away whenever I catch her looking my way, while I die a little inside. We had many hallway encounters and many chances for me to say hi, but I never did. Coward. Whenever I muster the audacity to do it, it crumbles the moment I look at her.
She has this stern look on her face—kind of intimidating. I wonder where she gets that, despite her cute, baby face. When I think back on those days fondly, I realize she was trying hard to pull up her walls. I realize that’s why I held out for so long before talking to her.
The first time we ever had an actual encounter was at a corner café in the building. I was already there, waiting for my order, when she arrived. There were a couple of guys taking their orders while she waited. I instantly felt stiff—I couldn’t remember how to properly stand. Should I cross my arms? I settled for putting my hands in my pockets.
One of the men taking orders noticed her, and this is usually the part I don’t like about myself whenever I see others noticing her. His presence left a bitter taste in my mouth. The guy said, “Well, shit, I can’t remember how to read menus whenever I see a beautiful lady,” and proceeded to ogle her. She was obviously uncomfortable, and I felt her inching closer to me.
The guy took one look at me. I don’t know what kind of face I was making, but he suddenly muttered “sorry” under his breath. It took me a minute to realize that he probably thought I was her man. My chest swelled. Hands went to it almost without thinking. Pride, or maybe just relief? And I don’t know how, but I suddenly heard myself asking her if she was alright. She looked up at me, nodded her cute little head, and smiled. And that was that. My barista called my name for my order, but I didn’t leave. I waited for the other guys to leave and stayed a bit until they were out of the café. She probably noticed, because she said thank you to me. I was speechless for a second but composed myself, nodded, and then left.
I was still in a daze until I reached my office, sat in my chair, and opened my computer. My coffee was forgotten and went cold, left undrunk until my shift was over.
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