From a Guys View, Page 2

company. She smiles and squeezes your hand a little, even offers you a quick peck on the cheek and congratulates you.

  Suddenly your heart is racing; this happens every day now, always a little flirting, always a hug, or a quick kiss. You keep telling yourself that she’s just being friendly, not to read so much into it. Women that beautiful just don’t go for guys like you, but there is a part of you that keeps insisting that your wrong, it does happen.

  You exit the elevator together, chatting, and she pat’s your hand just before you part to head into separate cubicles. The scent of her perfume continues to fill you head all day. You can’t quite seem to get her out of your mind. You go to lunch, still arguing with yourself about whether or not she really is trying to send you some of those infernal signals. You hate trying to figure out women’s signals, it’s like there should be a hand book or something that comes a puberty to explain what they mean.

  When you return you find that you have an e-mail waiting. You open it and there is a picture of Samantha, blowing you a kiss, “Just sending you a bit of good luck.” Okay, that does it, one way or another you have to say something!`

  You exit your cubical, as inconspicuously as possible make you way to Samantha’s. She is on the phone with someone. She looks up and smile’s and waves you in. “Okay, I’ll talk to you soon.” She say’s and hangs up.

  “Listen, Samantha, I don’t know exactly how to say this but, well, here’s the thing. You’re a beautiful woman, and since I’ve met you, I have come to like you a lot. I mean you’re intelligent, funny, and really sweet. I was wondering, if you might be free tonight, maybe we could grab a bite to eat together.

  Suddenly, the smiles disappear. The warmth becomes winters deepest chill. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I’m seeing someone.” You feel a sledgehammer hit you directly in the stomach. How could you have possibly been so stupid as to think someone like her would be interested in you? What kind of idiot are you? “Sorry,” you say lamely, “I didn’t realize, I, I’ll just go.” She turns from you coldly, and you slink back to your cubical.

  The next day you step into the elevator, the scent of your perfume hit’s you like a wall. “Good morning Samantha, how are you?” “I’m quite well thank you, and how are you today?” There’s no warmth, no friendliness and certainly no more flirtation. To make things worse, all of the women in the office are looking at you as if your jack the ripper covered in blood. God only know what she told everyone, and then what that must have evolved into over the retelling.

  You make your way quickly to your cubical, silently cursing whoever made safety glass as a standard in building codes, no possibility of a quick escape there, and muddle your way through one more day at the office.

  The next day you come in fifteen minutes early, to make sure you miss Samantha in the elevator, instead you see her hanging adoringly on the arm of the muscle bound jackass on five who is openly leering at every woman he passes. The sight disgusts you, here the object of your affection is staring lovingly at a man who you personally saw feeling up the girl from accounting just two days prior.

  You consider saying something to her but considering what happened the other day she would probably just think you’re trying to make trouble, and if you’re perfectly honest with yourself, you are at least a little. Instead you press the up button and turn away from the disgusting sight, hoping that for her sake she figures out that she is too good for that steroid pushing, limp dicked jerk. Before she ends up getting hurt, though you can tell by the looks she keeps giving him that probably isn’t going to happen. Not that it would do you any good either way. You are well in the out’s now, and there is no going back.

  You board the elevator and hit the button to your floor. Suddenly a squeak on the other side causes you to automatically shoot out your hand and stop the sliding doors. There standing with her glasses slightly askew and an arm load of papers on the verge of spilling all over the ground is a girl from the secretarial pool, whose name you can’t quite remember. The poor thing looks so harried and disheveled that you have to take pity on her, and unload her arms.

  You take the papers and quickly shuffle them around until they are in a nice neat stack on the floor of the elevator. “You’re good at that.” She say’s admiringly. “I spent years carrying arm loads of papers, I got a lot of practice. The key is to remember that no matter how important they are, it isn’t sacrilege to set them on the ground and re-arrange them.

  She laughs, it wasn’t much of a joke but she loved it. You stand up, and she steps a bit closer to you. “I heard what happened, and I saw how much she flirted with you. She shouldn’t have led you on like that. I would never do anything like that to you.

  Her closeness is so abrupt, so unexpected, and the sound of true understanding in her voice takes you completely by surprise. Suddenly as you look into her clear green eyes you see a beauty there you never noticed before. You don’t mean to, you never even looked at this girl in a sexual way before, but you are kissing her. More importantly, she is kissing you back, and with such fire and passion that you are completely lost in the moment. The bell on the elevator ring’s and you feel the rush in your head as the elevator comes to a stop. She pulls away, and grabs your hand. Out of nowhere she produces a felt tipped pen, and scribbles something on your hand.

  With a flurry of papers and hair she disappears from the elevator, and she is running flat out down the passageway.

  You look at your hand and unsurprisingly, it’s her phone number. “Tabatha, that’s her name!” There’s a little kissey face surrounded by a heart below the number. It looks like you have a new girlfriend.

  A few weeks later you and Tabatha are setting at dinner, she takes a bite of her spaghetti and a sour look crosses her face. “You know, I really don’t like Italian food that much.” You pick up your steak knife, and consider pulling it across your throat, just to hear the horrified scream and she is drenched in your life blood. It’s a flitting thought; you don’t even consciously register it. Instead your cut into you rare steak, and for some reason find a particular delight in the red juices that flow from it, and ask her why she doesn’t like Italian.

  As mentioned before, this is dedicated to the ladies who ask, why is he such an asshole. The next time you’re asking yourself that, or asking one of your friends that. Think back to this little story; try to remember what it was like to break up with someone you truly love because they are tearing you apart. Try to remember what it’s like to try understanding the “signals” that women give, and only women understand. Try to remember what it’s like to go through all of this, and then suddenly meet someone who you think may actually be different, just to find the patterns are starting all over again.

  Basically, try to remember, that just like you, he is doing his best to understand a person who he can never truly understand, because he can never experience things the way you do. But, you at least you got a small glimpse into the way a man thinks and feels. And ladies, we do think, and we do feel, even if we don’t always make a big spectacle of it.