3 posts tagged “girls”

I'd first noticed her when she was, like me, queueing to buy a ticket for the walking tour; just, initially, the usual reaction on seeing black hair and a familiar-ish accent. I was, at the time, just chuffed that there would be someone closer to my own age on the tour; I'd seen the rest of the group, and they were all rather older than myself

But I found my heart-rate soaring as I worked up my courage to try and talk to her. She was, perhaps, not exactly pretty; but she carried herself well, and had an attractive style. White jacket, black scarf, dark jeans and brown boots. Long hair, and a habit of thrusting her slim, petite hands into the back pockets of her figure-fitting jeans as she walked.

She turned out to have a clear, high voice; easy on the ears, with none of the crude, thrusting, intrusive manner that sometimes seems de rigeur for the modern woman. And, better yet, none of the heavy, plodding, offensive-to-the-ear accent that comes from home (which would have been surprising, since she doesn't come from home, after all). Better and better; until, of course, I found my ability to estimate a person's age has in no way improved with my own aging*.

Still, there is something about speaking to a pretty, articulate lady – one is reminded of an archaic use of "making love" one sadly long gone out of use – pleasure that can be had out of mere conversation. It is probably too short a time to judge; I had perhaps, over the course of the day, exchanged less than a thousand words with her, which by any standard is an inadequate length of time to measure anyone. I did like what I heard (and what I saw), though. That last 5-minute stroll after the tour – found out a little more – in a near-vacuum of information, everything's good to have. KL native; studying Politics & Economics at A-Levels (among others); finishing her final exams sometime in May; and probably taking a gap year after she's done. And that was it.

The best bit was after – while moving through the motions, I asked her – what're you doing for the rest of the day? – dinner, and the boat tour, she said, and how about you – back to my hotel and dinner with my dad, I said – and she gave - and here was the best part – a little sigh of disappointment, a small, quiet, final-sounding "Oh". Loved that. Even if it is really a matter of interpretation; it could have been an "Oh" that meant anything. But I like my interpretation. 

It is, of course, completely moot. She is merely a memory, now, nothing more; already I forget the details of her face. Sad, perhaps; I wish I'd been able to find an excuse to take her photo. And get her number; she'll get older, after all. In 5 years it'd be fine – going by the "Divide by 2 and add 7" rule. Never mind. It was (assuming she was telling the truth and I heard her correctly) Farah (or some homonym thereof), right? Sadly, I will forget you soon; not that it will matter to either you or I in a month.

Memories seem to be sweeter, in any case; reality has a rude habit of intruding on the perfection of real people, adding inevitable imperfections, highlighting and enlarging the pits and potholes of the human spirit. My memory of her will only improve.

* I have been horribly wrong before, whether in estimating a person to be a decade younger than he actually is, or in mistakenly (possibly cruelly) attributing an additional half-dozen years to a budding adolescent. It is probably in part a reflection of what I want to believe, combined with an honest-to-God inability to accurately take the measure of another person – itself the result of a quarter-century of profound disinterest in most people.

Talked to a Malaysian Malay girl today while walking on the guided walking tour of Canterbury. She was pretty. Very cute. Sexy. Smallish, I really, really liked the way she moved. White jacket, black scarf, brown (furry?) boots. Blue jeans IIRC. Unfortunately, 16. Bit young. What was her name? Farah? Damn she was cute, until she said she hadn't even finished her A-levels yet. Which puts her at 16 at the most. Gah.

Anyway I'll never see her again; Farah/ Fara/ [other spelling variations I don't know] is exceedingly common in Malaysia, and even in London it's too hard. And probably doesn't have Facebook anyway. Ah, well… at least I opened my mouth, anyway; I can live with myself.

Then there was that Oxford native who works at Blackwell – Nicole? Nicola? Didn't quite catch that. University of Edinburgh fine-art student. Not too bad too, at least willing to talk. Probably 20. Almost enough to make me want to take up a part-time retail position at Blackwell. Almost. Maybe.

I wonder how much of my creepiness shows. Mmm creepiness.

Snow across England yesterday, apparently. Snowed in Oxford, snowed all the way to Canterbury. When we got to Canterbury it was even worse.

The Oxford Literary Festival was fun; I stewarded a Meg Rosoff event and a second one the next day. Maybe I'll go back next year.

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.