Beryl-like Stranger
Unexpected was at best, the scenario in play on a very ordinary Tuesday afternoon. He was minding his own business, I’m sure, as I was mine, but hopeless romance always suggests otherwise. We were the sole owners of that particular stretch of sidewalk between 62nd St. and the Woodside Laundromat. Placidly scanning the horizon of the very ordinary elements of that Queens street, I saw him, walking towards me. Well, walking to the laundromat, presumably, but as far as I was concerned, I imagined him running to swoop me up into arms. [Que wind-blown hair] He was dressed in a casual light blue crew neck tee, slinging a blue laundry bag over his shoulder.
I didn’t see him at first, but when I did, I saw his legs—legs that looked like rounded columns of beryl. Archaic description, yes, but this gem is actually a real stone and is still mined today. It’s known for its hardness and tremendous beauty when transparent. In fact, it was one of the stones worn on the breastplate of the high priest in biblical times. Indeed, a highly valued gem, and so of course, I very quickly assessed the value of this beryl-like stranger. The sole image that kept playing in my mind was that of King David. If the rugged, handsome King were to don street clothes in the 21st century, I was surely staring him in the face. The King David incarnate in my mind had in reality short salt and pepper hair, broad shoulders with a body fit and taut well suited beneath their breadth, sun kissed skin, and the kind of irresistible swagger inherent in a man who doesn’t even realize he has it. The pleasantness of his features were I assure you, unmistakeable. Thankfully the exchange was a manageable 20 seconds, for I doubt I would’ve kept it together much beyond 30. A stumbling and bumbling assessment of him, coupled with my grasping attempts to maintain composure, culminated in a steady moment of intentional eye contact, which to my surprise seemed mutual. I most definitely forgot to take a few breaths. Not to my memory have I ever locked eyes with a man so handsome.
Mercifully, I was still looking moderately cute after a full, dull day at the office. My outfit, relaxed and professional; hair, attractively messy; shoes, white tennies. I looked appropriately adult. We passed. I hustled up to my third floor walk-up, and after a short conversation of approval with myself in the mirror, I paced the apartment for a few minutes in lieu of a cold shower.
But I do wish with all the fortitude my little heart could muster that I had turned and looked again. Perhaps to see him turning around too? My hopeless romantic heart could burst at the thought.
And it was on my very routine commute home in a neighborhood which is arguably less than attractive, in more ways than one. To see such an a-typical one was, delightful. But it happens in New York. We pass thousands of people each day on our commutes. A sea of attractive and unattractive alike; sometimes we notice, sometimes we don’t. But more often than not, it takes a particular likeness to turn our heads. And it is for this very reason—the rareness of such a simple exchange that I do wish I had turned my head; that I had said something. For what am I left with now for not having tried? A funny little story, to be sure, but the greater loss is having seen someone so strikingly lovely, yet constrained by pride and insecurity that I literally let them pass by.
I wish my handsome stranger well, and can only hope that one day I will stop someone’s breath the way he did mine. I looked for his blue bag in the window of the laundromat as I passed by it on the next morning’s commute. It was there, and I felt a smirk rise onto my coy little chin.
