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Wordsmith
Join Date: Dec 2004
Location: New York
Posts: 5,240
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Into The Mind Of An Introvert
I wrote this mostly as a way to help me see the relationship I was having with a woman I was in love with from a third perspective. It didn't work this way at all, but I based the characters off of both of us. Then I grew away from her and we lost touch and the story fell apart, a lack of inspiration evident by the end. It's pretty long, as far as posts for forums go.
Chapter 1
Dale Jobson was a man who had never really lived. He had never been so far out he was sure to fail, albeit knowing he’d a great time in the process. The opportunity had passed him so many times, yet he’d never even occurred to do something blindingly stupid for the fun of it. Dale would have argued that this was safe, mature, if the argument had ever crossed his mind. It never had; he was a man trapped within his oblivion.
He was not the assertive type. He wasn’t shy, he never mumbled, made eye contact with those he spoke to. Yet he had a shy demeanor, a fear that kept him from approaching what he wanted, waiting and hoping it would approach him first. Many found this mysterious, for that’s what mystery was. The power to elude, yet captivate.
He wasn’t an ugly person. In fact, he was quite handsome, nearly gorgeous. If it weren’t for his good looks, he would be obscurely overlooked. Young, with a neatly shaped face, mystifying brown eyes and near black straight hair, his perfectly accompanied body, muscular and of a medium build, was enough for any man to be jealous of, and any woman to crave. He realized this, although he didn’t personally see it in himself, or do anything to sustain his beauty. He knew he could utilize it; he fantasized in doing so, of dazzling woman to improve his sex life, his romantic life, his… life. But he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He saw the chances he had, he would see beautiful young woman making eye contact, moving closer to him, smiling and adjusting their postures. He wasn’t afraid to meet their eyes and to make the smallest of smiles, mysterious enough to instill desire yet to be untouchable, it seemed, to everyone.
It wasn’t that Dale was ignorant. Though his eloquent dialogues were mild, he always knew what to say. Even if he didn’t say it. He would think of a witty, romantic sentence, approach a woman, and walk right past her. Usually, it would end up in a story or poem, that being the base of most of his inspiration. In truth, he was a bit afraid of what would happen if he were to talk to her. Perhaps she would laugh, perhaps not. It was the latter that scared him. His life, which was comfortably bland and insecure, would change completely. The commitment of it strayed him away from any type of dating world. He had experienced it before, and he had broken her heart. As his girlfriend cried in his arms, telling him that he was the most sincere person she had ever met, he wondered how anyone could consign the rest of their lives to this. He was invidious of those that could, though he had no desire himself to be a person with such dedication. And he knew that if he were, he would never cheat in any way. His morals would not allow it. Feeling her tears increase and wet the shoulder of his sleeve, he felt hurt. He looked down, seeing her shaking, and he felt nothing. And the nothing he felt hurt. For that reason he bid farewell to his girlfriend, moving on with little difficulty. He found it comforting, yet unsettling, to know he had so little connection to those around him.
His friends and family would easily say he was an introvert. He wouldn’t object to it. He kept to himself and had only a few dear friends he had known since childhood. He didn’t search either; he avoided dance clubs, and rarely made new friends at social gatherings. He kept in contact with his family intermittently, usually during Christmas and other family gatherings. He spent most of his time reading philosophy, psychology, history, and poetry, avoiding news, despising the manipulation and power media controlled. He was particularly keen on Shakespeare and Keats. He was a poet himself, well off from it and still making a living out of it, having written a few books under various pseudonyms. He had told no one about them, instead saying he was an artist of sorts to those who asked. Usually he just avoided the question. He hated compliments, and rarely gave them out. He didn’t see the point.
He now sat at a coffee shop. With a decaffeinated tea, he kept the book he read close to the table. He enjoyed the coffee shop in his town. Small, it had a slow, steady supply of customers, never too busy or loud. He would spend much of his day there, enjoying the rarity of seclusion such a public place offered.
Normally he sat on the balcony, but now as autumn progressed, it started getting cool outside. Inside wasn’t much warmer, but he didn’t mind. Today was a particularly windy day, especially when the sun was hidden behind the clouds, and Dale remembered the sweater he left at home.
The clouds shifted slowly across the expanse of sky, allowing sunlight to weakly show through. Dale noted the change, though the sun didn’t reach where he sat. Only a small sliver of sunlight reached his hand, which rested on the table. He could feel the warmth of it on his skin, and took his eyes off the pages of his book. He watched the ray of sun, concentrating on it. He could feel the warmth more easily now, focusing closer. He felt it radiate up his arm and through his body. He closed his eyes, moving his hand slightly so the sunlight landed on his fingers, and took delight in the way it warmed his fingernails faintly. A couple moved neared the table and blocked the sunlight. Dale opened his eyes, feeling the warmth linger. He looked up, the moment used to its full potential and ending before it lost its magic.
Standing near him was a young woman. She was pretty, not stunningly beautiful, and certainly not boastful in any way. She wore jeans and a modest black turtleneck sweater. The sweater looked old and had a paint stain on the sleeve. As she placed her order to the cashier and paid, she turned towards Dale. He met her eyes and made a small smile before returning to his book. She walked towards him, and Dale felt the calm nervousness he sensed so often in such situations. She neared him, and he folded the corner of his book and set it softly on the table. He saw that she really was pretty, with dark creamy skin (perhaps half African-American, half Caucasian?) and curly brown hair that was pinned to her head. She was thin, not curvy but not awkward looking either. She held herself gracefully, but certainly not as a dancer would.
“Excuse me,” she said. Dale looked up at her.
“I see that your reading a book, and I wouldn’t want to disturb you…” she waited, trying to read the expression on his face. It showed nothing. She felt flush, feeling embarrassed. Dale smiled at her. She noticed it, feeling more comfortable, and continued.
“The rest of the tables are taken. Since we’d both be reading our books, would you be ok with sharing your table with me?”
He nodded, and she sat across from him. She thanked him and sipped her coffee, turning her attention to her book. He returned to his own, glad the encounter went well, or what well was in his mind. They continued reading, and Dale noticed he liked the company. He looked up and read the title of the book she was reading. Dale couldn’t believe it, the book she was reading was a collection of poems from various authors, one of whom was Dale. Not under his name, under a Samuel Edwards, but his poetry nonetheless. He wasn’t sure what to think of it, and looked back down. He realized at that moment how lonely he was. He felt the longing for a kinship, the detachment from society that weighed so heavily down on him. For years he had enjoyed it, and in this one instant it dissipated nearly entirely.
The woman realized he was staring at her and looked up. He was cute, she thought, but so dark. Not physically, but such a dark mentally that radiated from him. Strong-minded, but not cruel. She was attracted to him; there was something about him she couldn’t place that pulled her towards him.
She extended a hand, “Rene Harris,” she said.
He shook her hand and said, “Dale Jobson,” he paused, feeling awkward. He held the questions he though of on the tip of his tongue. Waiting a little too long for it to be casual conversation, he asked, “I noticed the book. You’re a fan of poetry?”
“I love it,” she said. “It speaks to me so passionately, or so casually if that’s the intention, how can I resist?”
“I know what you mean.” He motioned to his own book.
“Oh, I love Rumi,” said Rene, a smile gathering around the edge of her lips.
Both caught each other’s eyes, Dale observing her brown eyes. While his eyes were of a solid chocolate brown, hers looked like a dark marble. She smiled and looked down at her book. Dale did the same, starting to feel uneasy again. He wondered what she thought of his poetry, almost asked, but couldn’t think of a subtle way of doing so. Keeping his head down, he moved his eyes up, straining to see what page and poet Rene was on. He couldn’t see.
Finally he relaxed and got back into his book. He lost in the poetry, forgetting the attractive Rene that did the same across from him. Rene glanced at the clock above the entrance of the coffee shop and stood. She shook hands with Dale and announced she needed to leave. He thanked her for making his stay that much more enjoyable and waved goodbye.
He sat back down, slightly excited. He contained his smile, but felt himself blossom internally. Dale wasn’t sure he liked the feeling. He looked towards the door, but Rene had already turned the corner. He looked back at the table, his emotions regained their usual disconnected feel, and Dale left for home.
Chapter 2
Dale found himself in the coffee shop more and more during the next week. He wasn’t sure why, though his thoughts kept returning to Rene. It was weeks before he saw her again, and when he did she told him she was busy and left quickly with her coffee. Dale hid his disappointment, and then extinguished it when he became conscious of it. When he saw her again, days later, he retained the same emotions he felt the first time he saw her: excitement, fear, and loneliness. This time they were able to talk longer, both with tea this time. He learned Rene was a college student with only two semesters left, one of the reasons why she had left in a hurry last time. She came to the town on weekends, hating the campus and college immaturity that came with it. She was majoring in Medical Science, but she had switched earlier from Liberal Arts. Dale had guessed correctly, she was half African-American and half Caucasian, though her parents were divorced soon after she left for college. She wanted to be a surgeon.
Dale became uneasy and gave generic details about his life when Rene asked. She noticed his restlessness and was fascinated by it, his confident and invisible emulsion that conflicted with each other. He said he was nearing thirty, had never gone to college, and had drifted from place to place, finally settling in the small town due to its conveniently infinitesimal and quaint village and large meadows. He had a house far from the little suburbia there was; a long rode in the woods with few residents other then him. He told her he helped some with books, because he enjoyed reading, though he didn’t go into details. He thought back to the book Rene had carried and smiled slightly. When Rene asked what he planned to do with the rest of his life, he looked away perplexed and perturbed.
The conversation slowed, they chatted a little about nothing in particular, until Rene cut Dale off.
“I need to study for a test coming up,” she told him. She took out her textbook, thick and used, and turned towards the end of the book. Dale acknowledged the end of the conversation and took a book he had brought along with him. As he read Plato, his attention was on Rene. He glanced up at her every so often, but she paid no attention to him. A few cups of tea later, he grew tired of this and went home. He spent a lot of the day thinking about Rene, creating conversations with her. In his conversations he was witty, not reserved, and wooed Rene with his brilliance. He was never sure where his fantasies would go after they drew close, each leaning over the small table.
Dale slowly opened up to Rene. They found themselves in the coffee shop more and more often, Dale sometimes leaving only in hopes of finding Rene there, and much of the time he found her waiting for him. Most of the time Dale was tormented, counting the days until the next weekend. Neither he nor Rene inquired towards telephone or email. Perhaps both knew voice and text didn’t hold the same magic as seeing each other in person. Eventually Dale admitted he was a writer, and even showed her a few of his poems. The ones he showed were never personal or very good, he wasn’t sure he wanted her to know of the skill he possessed with a pen.
Within months they became wonderful friends. As finals neared, however, Rene had less and less time to spend time with Dale. After a short meeting, he watched her leave the coffee shop, stressed and hurried, while he sat there. His book sat untouched on the table. He leaned back, feeling discontented at her short visit.
Due to Rene’s finals and visits with family, Dale wasn’t able to see her until weeks later. Finally she was finished with college permanently, and she had time to see Dale more then four times a week. Dale learned she had a boyfriend, they had met slightly earlier then Dale had. This disturbed him greatly, though he didn’t know why at the time.
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