Abhor (DirkJake)

2 //

>> D I R K

This museum,
every Saturday.

Over the years, I've basically memorized the place. My younger brother, Dave, thinks I'm childish for doing so. He believes I'm doing it ironically, but in reality, I'm really not. I go to calm, to remember my happiest days as a child. I would search others faces for some sort of emotion. I could read right through them, but no one could see me. With the glass across my face, I was covered. With my straight, expressionless face, I was undiscovered. With my silence, I was hidden.
No one could read me.

I was back on the bus, trying my best not to furrow my brow at the brunette reading across from me.
Again.
I'd seen him again and again on Saturday.
He would already be seated and engulfed in his literature as I sat across from him.
Every Saturday.
I would observe his features, reviewing his face over and over.
The day I saw him for the third time on this bus, was the day I had gone home, sketching the images on paper.
I had to get it right.
I had to memorize.
And so I did.

That public bus brought me to my deepest thoughts, reminding me of the pristine man analyzing page by page.
Hell, did I want him.
Did I?
What really drew me to him was how baffled I was as I thought of him.
He muddled my notions by sitting.
How can someone do that? To me? Of all people?

I am infatuated by him.

Yet I don't even know his name.
Or what his voice sounds like.
The probability of extensive perfection goes high on this being.
Why? No idea.

After 17 attempts and 2 months, I had memorized his appearance enough to depict him accurately.
It was disturbing how I focused on each and every one of his qualities.

I remembered how slimly shaped his nose is, looking over his ears which were slightly tickled by his hair, glasses pushing them out passably. I would even draw out the faint freckles that peppered across his cheeks, which I eventually saw due to extra lighting against his face as we stopped near a lit up sign.

I would scrutinize everything about him.

I watched as his fingers slipped from one leaf of the book to the next. Followed his eyes, inspected his lips, wished I could hear him breathe, speak, or solely look back at me.
He's glanced at me once or twice, but other than that, he hasn't given much care in me.

I have met an exemplary human.

But I haven't met him, have I?