No Room For The Weak
He couldn't shake her stare. She seemed starved for love, and expressed this hunger through a long, penetrating stare. If she wasn't so beautiful, the stare would frighten him, send him running through plate glass. Fortunately, her French country features softened the stare's effect, making it soothing, alluring.
Her personality was something else. She fancied herself smart, but was the dullest middlebrow, broadly gesturing while talking out of her ass which, when mute, was a fine ass, its firm features distorted only when she spoke. She had a BA in literature from a major university, but her knowledge was by-the-numbers, memorized in a specific, set order. She never allowed her learning to seep into her mind, take its own course, kick up whatever imagination she possessed. She was too aware that others were aware, mostly of her good looks, but also of her self-advertised importance, thus she left nothing to chance, and couldn't even if she wanted to.
He talked himself into loving her, or wanting to love her. Having barely finished high school, he lacked the stamp giving him automatic entry into her world. But as he had with other gated crowds, he found a way in, using his humor like a knife, waving it close to their throats but never nicking flesh. This usually worked, giving said crowd a sense of danger, yet nothing too threatening.
He learned early on how highly-educated people like the idea of losing control, since much of their world is planned and routine. But they rarely try it themselves, preferring a lesser fool to lose control for them. This was his function; and for a time he was happily foolish, as it brought him close to women he'd have no chance of meeting were he truly himself.
The middlebrow with the stare was his favorite.
He cornered her a few times at parties, making her laugh then making her sigh with some bullshit prose he lifted from minor poets. He kissed her slowly, deeply, felt her small body rise to his, pressing against his thick frame. He'd get her to the point of finding a room, then she'd back off, mumble excuses, brush at her blouse as if to erase him. She had a boyfriend, though he was never around, and she only mentioned him when aroused and ready to cheat.
Finally, he grew tired of her game. He assailed her passive-aggressive behavior, laying down an ultimatum. Was she in or out? He knew this would give her an easy exit, for she was not the type of woman who responded to ultimatums, primarily those issued by lesser fools. She acted as if nothing had happened between them, that it was all in his head. He accepted this, but remained angry, wanting to shake and force her to confess her desire.
She married a guy she grew to like, some businessman who would never challenge her or take her to places where she could let go. She appeared happy on the surface, the same dull smile in every picture posted online. But he knew she was in a boring hell, surrounded by sleepwalkers and those killing time. That was her punishment for cowardice, for not taking the leap with him. It was there in her smile, but also her stare, the one feature he'd always treasure, no matter how dead it became.