Laura Sloth Andersen, "Just as much a rose as us"

     He just stood there and looked at me, glancing below my neck. He attempted  to hide it by forcing his hands down his vintage jeans pockets and staring down at the ground between us a long second later in an awkward movement, making him look insecure and flustered – rightly so. He then put on a mature expression, trying a renewed attempt at professionalism, continuing our conversation about the used bike I was there to buy. But he couldn’t hide it. He did that thing all men do when they’re trying to keep their cool: put his head too far back, lifted his eyebrows and straightened his face too far, trying to hide a goofy smile, while rather successfully veiling his eyes so they wouldn’t reveal his joy over the effect I had on him. 

     It happened too often. I knew I had a vibe men liked. And as much as I tried to turn it off, to pretend as if I didn’t, to dress badly and not wear makeup and keep my hair greasy to try to seem cold and reserved, it didn’t work. They still liked my energy; were still attracted to me. Like it didn’t have anything to do with my appearance at all. The only way people knew how to describe it was to say I looked good. Even if it was just the invisible things in me they felt the effect of and liked, the things I couldn’t control. No matter how disinterested I genuinely was, they were somehow able to look past that and still like me.      

     This guy was handsome like a dad in a 90’s movie. Striking macho poses with his hands on the garage roof as he talked about the grandmother-style bike in good condition from his ex-wife that he’d been using until he’d just now gotten his hands on a new men’s bike. As if that mattered and anyone noticed when men rode women’s bikes. I smiled in an assuring way, showing him I understood.

     “Thanks for this,” I said moments later with a genuine smile, and reached out my hand to shake his, after switching the keys he’d just given me to my left hand. He smiled back, allowing more of the goofy expression he’d been holding in to shine through this time, as if my shift in guardedness allowed this. Then he glanced below my neck again, with a sudden part-serious, part-longing, part-sad expression and looked up, saying in a friendly way and as innocently as possible: “You’re gonna get a hug instead.” He leaned in, and so did I – what else could I do. It didn’t have anything to do with me anyway; I just did what was necessary for the situation, shutting myself off from it. I was just a fixture of his imagination. From the moment we’d met, he’d put up a see-through screen in front of me. Something all too many men did, so I recognized it; recognized how it felt. 

     The screen allowed them to look at me as if I wasn’t real, as if they were dreaming me up. It cut me off from reality, but more significantly, it cut them off from reality as well, in a much more harmful way. It made them able to fantasize right then and there, about the very real human right in front of them. Both parties forced to play out ordinary scenarios that come natural to an otherwise civilized person, but with no heart in it at all. Leaving both wanting something more. The difference was just that what the shifting men wanted, was a fantasy to play out, and what I wanted was for the ordinary scenario we played out to be actually real. 

     I wanted the men to be able to drop back down to earth and be present in all the glory that ordinary situations can offer, instead of dreaming themselves away, wanting something unrealistic. I was certain they got addicted to it, always wanting more, drifting further and further away from reality. They forget more and more that there’s all kinds of magic and intimacy in normalcies. And all I wanted was this. But I was involuntarily cut off from it all the time. Secluded to a corner behind a screen, with only the shell of me visible to others. So how could I ever want more. How could I ever give in to a man, when no one made an effort to get to know me and be present with my real self?

     I said thank you, though, the moment before we hugged. I didn’t know why, other than that I was starved of affection, just the same. How could I not be? All I was offered wasn’t genuine. And when it was, I shied away, afraid to trust that it felt authentic, in case their acting was too good and I was mistaken. The thing was, too, that they were the ones doing the acting, all the while pretending I was the one acting, But  I always hold back, always. Because if I was too real, which meant too friendly, too kind, too likeable, then they misinterpreted it. So I hold back. But in return, I guess them noticing the part of me missing allows them to feel like the whole situation isn’t real. So all I could do was be misunderstood.

     He seemed surprised for a moment, before he pulled me towards him, eager to fulfill his longing to have me as near to him as possible. Even if just for a moment. Something as small as this was a big deal to him. And, I was afraid to admit that it was to me, too. Hence, the ‘thank you’ I involuntarily let escape before I tried to not enjoy the closeness of yet another man I knew I didn’t want.

     He was lonely and growing desperate, turning bitter. Still sweet, and most likely well-intentioned. But he’d started to carry around an eeriness that stuck to everything he did and said. A large part of me wanted to stay and help him through it. It wasn’t over for him yet; he could still turn around. But I wasn’t sure he’d be able to on his own. Not just like that. It required a bigger experience. I actually hadn’t done anything to challenge or confront his behavior. Not that I’d had to, though. But I hadn’t said anything that would open his eyes to how his behavior could be perceived, and that maybe he should work on it. People like him didn’t need to get better at just hiding their intentions, though; they needed to get beyond them. To be satisfied with much less, because much less was enough, more than enough. They don’t need what they think they need. They just need to be seen. To be accepted, and really feel it thoroughly. 

     And the thing was that I did accept them. I just didn’t feel safe to let them know that. But I could see through their bullshit. Could see the little boy inside them that could get easily smitten but had never learned how to deal with that in a proper or healthy way. It wasn’t healthy for them to walk around like this, feeling like they needed to hide their true selves, their true desires. Intention and desire are not the same things, but they can easily go hand in hand, if taught how to. 

     Their expressions are faulty. But their hearts are not. I knew this. And I knew a lot of women didn’t know this, didn’t fully believe it, because too often they’d been given reasons to trust the bad, instead of the good. So I didn’t blame them, either. But I had this big desire to teach men how to better themselves, and it was only growing bigger after this encounter. The easiest way to do this was through real, personal relations, though, and that would give the wrong impressions. I didn’t want to just go from man to man, leaving them hopefully better off than before, one after another. What kind of life would that be? But I knew I’d be good at it. And I knew the world was in need of it. This malfunction translated into all aspects of life, all over the world. This much was obvious to everyone by now.

     I avoided eye-contact when we ended the hug, on purpose, so it wouldn’t seem too intimate, so he’d get the wrong impression. I’d already forgotten what the hug felt like, hadn’t let myself feel it, partly because it came as such a surprise to me. I didn’t want to have liked it, so I made sure to not even notice it, because I didn’t want to like him. 

     I could’ve given in anyway and just enjoyed the hug for what it was and left it at that. But something kept me from that. And it wasn’t my awareness or fear of my own primal needs,, but me denying both the possibilities and the truth of it. There was something in him that kept me from it, something I couldn’t explain or even understand. But I honored it. There was something in him that I feared, the primal tendencies, and I knew how to act on that fear, while seemingly ignoring it. A dangerous talent. Easily misinterpreted by men blinded by their own conceptions.

     For now, he was still out there, waiting for a new experience he didn’t know he needed.. I felt kind of guilty, but it wasn’t my responsibility. Sure, I could’ve helped him, and would’ve gladly done it; would’ve most likely been really good at it. But apparently, I hadn’t been ready just then. And I wasn’t going to see him again. I’d gotten something out of our encounter, and hopefully so had he. Even if I didn’t know what, other than another meaningless fantasy, and even if he didn’t know what either. There could still be something, something that would incline him to treat women as being human, because he’s just as much a rose as us. 

     He’s just gotten hold of too much of the bad magic that often somehow has a better stick than the good kind. And can’t help but insist on being shown. As eeriness. As a cry for help. But too often ignored. These men need our help. Just not necessarily personally from us. We should never feel guilty for protecting ourselves. Just keeping in mind that usually, the ordinary man is just as much a rose as us, though one who requires an altogether different approach and care. 

     I get these men, but it needs to end. They just play the part they see, like wounded soldiers, avoiding making change. 

     I got up on my new bike, looked at the man with an innocent, knowing smile, said “Bye,” and rode off, leaving him looking abandoned, with just a memory of me, as if from a movie, now able to keep me to himself, no longer obligated to do anything to move me, which he hadn’t fulfilled anyway. I’d just existed for his enjoyment. And while I hadn’t done anything to leave a good impression, neither had he, other than his manly behavior and macho poses. But I’d been able to look behind that act. I saw through him and knew what he needed. But that still wasn’t enough to make me live up to his obvious wishes.

     He’d just been dreaming me up and taking me in. 

     Still, I may have just left an impression that would put a bigger shine on the good magic dust in him, dimming the dark. I hoped so. He deserved that much. And who knows, maybe he also secretly wished for me to turn away, knowing I deserved better than him.