Friday
A really rather stressful day, getting better towards the end, and culminating in a two-hour, heaven sent, tea-and-brownie-and-magazine session in Asda 'restaurant' with Char. A slow, lethargic irritation has been building inside me all week, and there are moments when I have to work hard to restrain myself. It would not do to offend my best friend, and in any case, my anger and bitterness is not her fault; I've had a bad month or two, is all.
True to form, brother manages to annoy me beyond possibility in the car journey, although a consolation arrives in the form of a double cheeseburger (gherkin dutifully removed, of course) and a strawberry milkshake from Mac's, given that we have around half an hour to spare. After buying my ticket and returning to the car, getting myself absolutely freezing in the process - I really shouldn't wear skirts in February, no matter how many pairs of tights - there's another half an hour's wait, due to a late running train holding up the line. I'm chucked out of the car at ten to five, to make my way across the street, and just about manage to lug my ridiculously heavy case up the stairs. In my defence, I am going for five days.
After much pacing back and forth to shut the door of the absurdly cold waiting room, jostling in my bag trying desperately to find my railcard, and juggling of handbag, carrier bag, case and tea, I find myself sat opposite a man who is, for all intents and purposes, simply too beautiful to exist. Picture the scene: me, a gawky, tall girl with tussled hair and enlarged features, staring at the smooth, chiselled plains of a faultless face , the soft scoops of delicately blonde hair (which consequently both dirties and mocks mine in the process), the piercing blue eyes of a shade and clarity I have never seen before or since, and a perfect smile, a literally heart-melting smile, parading perfectly white, slightly rounded teeth. He sits with a composure that exudes something just short of arrogance - of course, he would know he was perfect. But it doesn't seem to be overly so; he holds himself with the knowledge that people are looking at him, but also the desire to make a good impression. He catches my eye and smiles a lip-smile. I spend the next twenty minutes just looking at him.
He is a tall man, around five inches taller than me, making him a good 6'2'', with a wiry frame that is exaggerated by the oversized fluorescent workman's jacket and trousers he wears. A dirty workman's jacket and trousers. Half way through the journey, he takes his jacket off with large, grease-smudged hands, revealing a simple, black, short-sleeved top, which deftly manages to cling to his pectoral and abdominal muscles, while gently caressing the smooth curve of his shoulder. He ties the jacket around his waist, a la eleven-year-old, but somehow still looks like a god. He talks to the man next to him with a voice that surprises me, for it is completely normal. He is well-spoken, though clearly un-educated, but charming. He shortens his words, and conceals a vague, mid-Lincolnshire accent that is noticeable only sometimes. He laughs with his neighbour, and even he seems in awe of his counterpart.
There is a certain je ne sais quoi about this man, which I find irresistible - although not in the usual sense. I literally cannot take my eyes off him, so pleasing is his face. This is not admiration, or lust, however - don't get me wrong: I would - but rather an amazed sort of wonder. I find myself marvelling at the smooth texture of his skin, the very deep, piercing blue of his eyes, and wondering to myself just how this beautiful being came to work on the train lines, or highway maintenance, or wherever it is indeed that he works. It seems a shame to me, that such an exquisite creature should get his hands so dirty and chapped and chafed. He should be put on a pedestal, admired by all. He should, by rights, have songs and stories written about him (hence this quailing attempt), be spoken and sung about for years to come, be the story of myth and legend.
But, alas, he is not. He works ten hour days, in a job that means there is always dirt under his fingernails, with people who burp and fart and make sexist jokes and terrorise women everywhere with their wolf whistling. This man, however, does not. I know nothing about him, and yet I am sure of this. Of course, I am also very sure that I would very easily be proved wrong. He would let me down. He would not live up to my expectations, just as many things and people never do or will. Not because my expectations are too high, but because the world is not like that. This man probably cheats on his girlfriend, or spends too long at the pub, or has a habit, ingrained by his father, of being inadvertently sexist.
Yet, it seems unfair to say these things. Why should a face make any difference? And yet - it does. Beautiful face equals beautiful person, apparently. The kind of man that buys flowers for his wife because he can, spends time with his children, holds doors open for old women in shops and supermarkets. The kind that always lets you out, even on busy days, and will leave notes for you around the house, especially on your bad days. But these men don't exist. There is never a singularly perfect person, and if it is not a physical flaw, then it is mental, psychological, moral. People, by their very nature, come with baggage, with problems, with things which we would change, despite it not being our place to. If there is one thing for certain, it is that you will never find someone that you are perfectly happy with, that there is not one single thing that you would not alter given half the chance. There will always be someone who has no sense of humour, despite their good looks; someone who is heart-wrenchingly lovely, despite their lack of looks; someone who is the complete opposite of you in every way, and manages to annoy you just by existing. As humans, we are vain creatures. Anyone who says that looks don't matter lies. Of course looks matter, but it is the combination of looks, personality, thoughts, ambitions, feelings, that make people so compatible, so perfect. And then there are those people who never find their perfect person. What of them? If we are to believe that there is 'a person out there for everyone', then why are they left behind? Perhaps they lack something, some small detail that renders them incapable of affection. Whatever this man's flaw is, he certainly has the looks bit in the bag.