Semester 1 Issue 9
By Anisha Thomas
Here’s Looking At You
Do you remember MX? That fantastic free newspaper you could pick up on public transport? We all read it for Here’s Looking At Yous, like Tinder for your morning train, hoping that perhaps we were the cutie in a blue scarf and quirky manic pixie fringe that someone noticed the other morning and hey let’s get coffee and make twenty beautiful chubby-cheeked babies together.
MX may be gone, but non-confrontational, emotionally inept people desperate for love still roam widely, wild and untethered. I am one of those people. However, I’m determined to change at least one of those things, and I assure you I’m not touching confrontation with a ten-foot pole.
(I’m also not touching ten-foot poles, and I also know that my hand is not touched by the sticky-sweet sweat you get when you hold someone’s hand. My hand is firmly unheld. But I wonder if I’ve touched your life the way you have mine.)
Let me first outline to you my love life. Please be kind.
I once spoke to a man entirely in rhyming couplets in iambic pentameter, had one make me a keychain with a neon orange plastic banana, been massaged in coconut oil and dated identical twins (oops). Despite these clearly edifying experiences, I am yet to find something lasting. So I would like to try my chances at love closer to home, which is where the heart is, which is squelchily speared to the underside of one of the desks on level three of the library.
Dear potential suitor, please see below my advertisements for missed connections and contact me if it is you and you would like to respond. Please respond?
Law Ball, 2017
I spotted you from across the floor at the after party. We were both terribly drunk, and I’ll be honest, I don’t remember what we spoke about. (I’m also a little hard of hearing so I also don’t know what you said because I couldn’t hear you.) I asked you some questions about your life ambitions, how you style your hair, what a lovely man like you was doing in a place like this. I also think I smiled ‘seductively’. I had to go throw up so I quickly ran away and when I came back you were kissing someone else. I was kinda sad, but maybe wondering if we could pick up where we left off? Also what’s your name?
Level Three Library, March 2018 – present
It all started one day when my card went beep beep on the reader and the doors opened and I walked in as you walked out. We made eye contact and you smiled warmly at me - and I, vacantly back at you. Do I know you? Do you know me? Why did you smile so gosh dang kindly at me? Are we kindred spirits? Am I Anne of Green Gables, and you, my coy Gilbert Blythe? We’ve since crossed paths a number of times, and sometimes we smile at each other. You always sit on one of those long tables at the end of the library and your hair is very bouncy. Your smile is like the sunshine on my back on a pleasant winter day after exams, or like sipping a coffee just for the taste, not out of the need to stay awake. There is no need to compare thee to a summer’s day, for you are far better.
Law School Revolving Door, March 2018
You were my first, did you know that? Not my first encounter with the revolving door – no, I’ve been at that for years – but my first moment of shared intimacy within the doors. We entered together into the offending wedge. I sighed deeply and earnestly, rueing the day my very fast walk was slowed to a near grinding halt by the mechanical doors which, to their credit, go about their job of turning at a disgusting pace with great dependability. So I sighed, and you said ‘I know’. We inched forward in silence, gasping with joy at the other end and, exchanging a quick smile, parted ways. Now I don’t know about you, but that changed the doors for me. I’ve since found them to be moments of mindfulness amidst frenetic days. I also go through them and not the far more convenient accessible doors to the side because I hope that perhaps we’ll meet again, or perhaps another beautiful stranger will synchronise their gasps and sighs with me. Dear human, seven seconds in heaven felt like a lifetime of love with you.
Please contact me. In fact, if this is not you, just pretend that it is anyway. You can contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can also contact me if you have good podcast content and would like to contribute. What? No you’re a shameless plug.