Locked On Target
I turn away from the group that I am with in the bar, the laughter at my tale still loud and suitably intrusive to cause other patrons to look our way. More fuel for me of course. It is then that I see her, stood at the bar waiting to attract the attention of the bar tender. She is not thrusting a card or note in the air demanding to be served, she is not hopping up and down trying to get in the eye line of the relevant server, no, she is stood waiting patiently. A good sign. Patience.
She is tall, not as tall as me, but only three of four inches shorter. An excellent height. She wears a tight elegant dress, black, no it is navy blue and it exhibits an exercised and properly nourished body. She knows how to look after herself. I can see from the fabric that this is no item of fast fashion but rather an enduring piece of classic attire. This also tells me that she has maintained her body shape and size for some time. Prudent, classy and disciplined. Super.
The Intimate Partner Primary Source is in devaluation. She is elsewhere. Where? Somewhere, but that is irrelevant right now. I knew you would ask that question, so asked and answered. I must return to the matter in hand.
I note the slender wrists and the way that she leans against the bar, her hands resting on the clutch bag which is placed on the bar. I cannot make out the brand from where I am stood. Her nails are manicured, but not in a brash manner, she does not wield garish multi-coloured talons, but rather neat nails with nail varnish which is some shade of red difficult to see precisely given the coloured lighting that plays onto her hands from the lights over the bar. Her fingers are long, nimble, I suspect she can play a musical instrument and I can picture a book resting in those neat hands. She prefers the texture and feel of the book as opposed to the electronic digestion of her literary meals. I momentarily wonder if a copy of Sex and the Narcissist or Manipulated has ever found its way into her hands and that amuses me.
Her hair is ash blonde and is cut so it rests on her shoulders which are bare. She has good shoulders, defined, strong, made for gripping. Made for biting. Her skin looks to have a slight tan, she does not look like someone who is a prolonged seeker of the sun. She is continuing to look across the bar as she waits to place her order.
Now, do I have competition. Actually, that is flattering of me to reference it as competition, a better description would be, is there a distraction? Who else lays claim, or rather may try to lay claim to her? I break away from looking at her to ascertain if anybody is watching her, watching over her, observing me looking at her. There is a group to the left, all women and I see a couple glance at her, doubtless to see if she has been served and brining them the required cocktail. There are no men in the group and the looks of the men suggest friendship, rather than anything more meaningful. She is not gripped by anybody sapphic, although I am sure she can embrace it at my direction, should the need arise. My cursory sweep of the adjoining area of the bar does not determine anybody who would prove a hindrance or distraction.
Now, for the most important part. The face and specifically the eyes. I continue to stare at her, ignoring a question from one of my friends behind me, he can wait. He does not persist in badgering me for an answer, he knows better than to keep doing that, that is why he remains a long-standing Non Intimate Secondary Source, some do learn.
My gaze bores into her. Come on, look at me. I urge in my mind. Turn, turn to me, HG wants to see more. The music playing in the bar has faded, the noise of conversation, the intermittent bellow of laughter, the sound of glasses and movement has become muffled and suppressed as my focus tightens on this lady.
In my peripheral vision, I see the problem coming from the left. Oh, I do not think so. Another customer is walking to the bar and he will, like the moron that he is, place himself between me and my quarry. I make considerable use of my peripheral vision, it serves me well in both my professional and private lives, I see things coming before others do and that gives me a distinct advantage.
I take a step forward and move to the bar, forcing the interloper to swerve around me and go behind me. If he had moved in front of me, I would have bumped into him, taken his wallet and thrown it behind him and pointed asking “Is that yours?” in order to make him move. Well, that is of greater subtlety than knocking him to the floor, this isn’t the bar for that kind of behaviour. Not tonight anyway.
The pocket dipping proves unnecessary and now I am roughly six feet from the lady as I stand at the bar, my body angled so that I am partially leaning against it, my eyes remaining locked on her. She will look, she will feel my presence and she will look my away. I wait.
Her head turns and she glances at me. Her eyes meet mine. It is brief and she glances away and I know what is coming. Yes, they come back and she looks up at me once again, my presence having pricked her to look this way and then that first exchange of glances sufficient to ignite her interest.
In that instant, as she looks at me, looking at her, this is when the magic happens. I see in those brown eyes the compassion, the kindness, the honesty, the decency, the intelligence, the keen enquiring mind. I have spent so many years learning what the eyes signify and I have ensured that I know what you are from looking into them. So much is gleaned from them, you give away so much from what shines from your eyes and when I say you, I mean the empaths of the world.
There is nothing you can do about it, other than I suppose wear sunglasses but that is going to look rather stupid in a bar at night and she is not Anna Wintour, fortunately. You are unable to hide that burning empathy which is always present in your eyes. You cannot make the kindness, the honesty, the considerate nature which radiates from your eyes and ones such as I recognise and target. The expression formed through those eyes is open and welcoming. There is no defence there. There are no walls, no moats, no towers of rejection, just a warmth and the flowing emotional empathy.
The look in her eyes is reinforced by the slight smile which is there, it is one of self-deprecation as if she should not be looking and feels ill-mannered for doing so. Boundary recognition. She has it. I do not. Her nose is long and refined. She wears make-up which accentuates rather than masks and I determine she is in her 30s, a little younger than me. Her face has a softness to it, I detect a sense of fortitude but she is not hard-faced. This is not a face which stands at bus stops in freezing winter drizzle.
The fact I find her in this bar suggests she has a decent enough income. There is no accompanying individual which reinforces that she has independence, not that it would prove insurmountable if she were attached in some way to another. Everybody is there for the taking.
All of the above information has been assimilated in under a minute.
I want her. I want to possess her. She is another trophy to be collected. She knows the rules, they all do. If you come on my radar, you belong to me. You are mine. She will not put up any stern resistance, I can already discern that from the way she has looked at me. She is interested, she is pleased my the attention of the well-dressed and handsome stranger. She wants to know why he has looked at her, she wants to know why he smiled and did not avert his gaze but instead continued to drink her in. Of course, she has no idea that I was already starting to drink of her fuel, but that does not matter to her. It matters to me. It matters that she will be brought under my control. I feel the flicker of invigorating fresh empathic fuel as it mixes with the established fuel from the secondary sources that were gathered around me from my coterie. Hers is delightful, light and sparkling, I feel it fizzing inside of me. I want more. I want to sink a new pipeline, attaching her to me and feel that potent, bountiful, fulsome fuel pumping and coursing along the pipeline from her to me. I want that fuel as it signals she is coming under my control to surge into me, bolstering me, filling me up, ensuring that it remains silenced.
I have another that will belong to me. Just like all the others. All the other possessions. She is mine, she does not know this but she will come to realise that soon enough and she will do so without me even having to tell her. She will learn and embrace such ownership with almost naive delight. They all do.
I want to educate her, I want to draw her memories into me. I want to consume her experiences, I want to suck her world into my veins and feel her moving through me. I want her breath, I want her kiss, I want her sounds and sights to become mine. I want to close my eyes and see her at eight years old carefree and running through a sun-kissed meadow. I want to see her at her graduation, smiling towards those proud, proud parents. I want to see her nervous at the top of her first black run and then giving a cry of excited fear as she sets off, which becomes the steady cry of triumph as she masters the piste. I want her thoughts to flow into me, I want to absorb her knowledge and understanding, I want her everything to belong to me.
She continues to look at me, then away and then back again. Her smile grows and she looks down and back up again, those eyes, that sanctuary beckoning to me and promising such salvation.
The pipeline is now attached and the fuel begins to flow.
I feel the surging inside and m vision narrows as the sights play across her elegant and beautiful face.
I am locked on target.
One thought on “Locked On Target”
Too many keep their minds in the gutter.