Lighthouse
You'll have to forgive me, I'm easily overwhelmed by the ladies, he says accompanied by a slight shuffle of his sole-worn boots, casually laced, tongues wagging like an overheated hound.
It's pause for thought. Something she hadn't even considered, given his reputation. A long, tall drink of water- isn't that the saying? Cool, confident, quietly aloof, a smile for all he greets. That certain sort of charisma that makes every woman feel special. Like she's the one, the only one who elicits that chemistry, that spark, that heartstopping, vibrating full body connection. He makes her thrum.
Until of course the rumours start to swirl. Like a maelstrom, or Thunder Mountain, that nauseating hypnotic carnival ride at the summer fairs, the ones her mother forbade her from attending. Safety first! Piped in '80's hairband hits scream out of the tin can amplifiers as the makeshift bobsleds cycle round repeatedly, past the acne prone, apathetic ride operator too far down the food chain to even begin to comprehend the irony of his own legitimate hipsterism. Whipping around at what feels like a breakneck pace but knowing, intrinsically, it's only phermones at work. What is it about him, really? Is it his impenetrable sense of self? Centred, generous and gracious in the moment but upon reflection, absolutely guarded and disenagaged. He never asks her about herself. He just sits in the center of himself, all him, all the time. Like a beacon, an unexpected lighthouse sending signals out to sea. Women, ships in the night, waiting for that shaft of light to flicker past them briefly, flashing, illuminating the way. A glimmer of hope, a direction to steer toward. Change tack, he's starboard bow! Except they all forget: a lighthouse exists to warn of impending danger, so mariners mired in the fog see the sign: Beware, danger ahead. Change course. Change course!
It's pause for thought. Something she hadn't even considered, given his reputation. A long, tall drink of water- isn't that the saying? Cool, confident, quietly aloof, a smile for all he greets. That certain sort of charisma that makes every woman feel special. Like she's the one, the only one who elicits that chemistry, that spark, that heartstopping, vibrating full body connection. He makes her thrum.
Until of course the rumours start to swirl. Like a maelstrom, or Thunder Mountain, that nauseating hypnotic carnival ride at the summer fairs, the ones her mother forbade her from attending. Safety first! Piped in '80's hairband hits scream out of the tin can amplifiers as the makeshift bobsleds cycle round repeatedly, past the acne prone, apathetic ride operator too far down the food chain to even begin to comprehend the irony of his own legitimate hipsterism. Whipping around at what feels like a breakneck pace but knowing, intrinsically, it's only phermones at work. What is it about him, really? Is it his impenetrable sense of self? Centred, generous and gracious in the moment but upon reflection, absolutely guarded and disenagaged. He never asks her about herself. He just sits in the center of himself, all him, all the time. Like a beacon, an unexpected lighthouse sending signals out to sea. Women, ships in the night, waiting for that shaft of light to flicker past them briefly, flashing, illuminating the way. A glimmer of hope, a direction to steer toward. Change tack, he's starboard bow! Except they all forget: a lighthouse exists to warn of impending danger, so mariners mired in the fog see the sign: Beware, danger ahead. Change course. Change course!
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