A moving target

Published 7:57 pm Tuesday, January 31, 2012

By Rex Alphin

Who do you think you are? Waltzing into the room as if walking onto a stage. As if your audience can barely hold its applause. How brash. How utterly self-centered.

You think your smooth gait captures us. How ridiculous. How absurd. I, for one, refuse to succumb to your spell, your supposed attraction. Let others fawn over you and “bow the knee.” Let them make fools of themselves. Not I.

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And don’t look this way, trying to catch my eye, as if the one that eludes you provides the greatest challenge. I am not so easily enslaved by such childish antics, for I think you intoxicated by your own appearance. Your pride blinds you.

And please don’t come close. Can you not see I’m in conversation? Am I not engaged with these around me? Yet you stand so close. Your scent is evident.

Well, just stand there if you must. Look like a fool as I converse. I don’t even know you are there. Even if I did, you are no different than other humans. Do you not eat and sleep like us other mortals? Have you not fingers and toes? Are you so different? I see no wings, no shining halo!

I hear you laugh. You wish me jealous? Envious, perhaps? Ha! Your futile attempts make me chuckle. You think me so naïve, so easily influenced by your charm?

Now you move away. You think I will follow, but I refuse. Am I a dog, leashed to its owner? A slave shackled to your presence? You wish.

Now you glance around the room. You won’t catch me looking your way. I feel you looking towards me with your cocky stare, your confident gaze, as if unfazed by the crowd. Your eyes glisten across the room. Stare if you must. You’ll not connect with mine, for I know how it would be deduced. I’ll not be misconstrued as another of your conquests, another stepping stone for your glory.

So, you’re coming my way. You pass within six inches of my left shoulder and continue on. See if I care. See if I turn and see where you are going or if you glance back. I am not so insecure as to place my emotions on display. You would have them handed to you on a platter, like John’s head, that you might be called the victor. It will take far more for me to stoop to such level, to grovel in such manner.

Why, you probably think this entire column is about you.