Scout on Desires/Insatiable Part 1

 Walk the right way and let yourself be consumed. Give every ounce to fulfilling the image that countless eyes desire. Be somebody who exists in theory but not in practice. I think of following this philosophy as I stare out at a vast cityscape, the windows embracing me as I lean on a stiff velvet armchair. Bright lights shine back; probably brighter than the stars I can never see. They outshine me, make me invisible to everybody else in the pristine apartment, with their even more pristine outfits and jobs. There was once a time when all I dreamed of was being able to sit in this five-figure chair, to be able to look down on everybody scraping for pennies below. Now that I’m here, I realize that I am just as invisible as they, no, even more so, because they are not yet detached from morality and character. Tears begin to pool in my eyes as I acknowledge that I have become the bigoted and soulless person who had trampled me before I made it up here. As I am consumed by a mellow anger, I notice someone’s reflection by mine, towering over and waiting for my head to turn to them softly. For a minute, I pretend that I won’t play their game. I pretend that I don’t need a distraction to forget what I have sacrificed. After I am done contemplating this unattainable reality, I turn to the man beside me. 

I know him. I know he’ll smile with his eyes the way that I like. I know he’ll listen just enough for me to feel like he deserves a night. I know I’ll worry whether I’m pretty enough for him, and he’ll know it. I know by the morning I’ll feel like I’m too good for him, but he’ll have already gotten what he wanted. These truths I am painfully aware of, but I still answer when he asks for my name, and I return the question. He sits in the armchair across from me, asks what I’m so wrapped up in, and asks why I’m not mingling and drinking like everyone else. I know he likes the idea of me being detached, like knowing that whatever he does to me won’t influence his reputation or conscience. I used to want to brood at parties because I knew men were attracted to it; now I can’t participate in social settings without being attacked with the feeling that I am a spineless fraud. A part of me is angry at him for being so fascinated by my loneliness. Still, I pretend, laughing coyly and returning my gaze to the window, sensing his eyes as they travel over every inch of my body. Another thing I used to love; another thing that I have learned to hate. He says that now he really needs to know. I wonder if I should break the cycle, tell him what I was really thinking about, try to really connect with someone for once. 

As I consider being honest, my eyes turn to studying him. His cuff links are worth at least a few hundred, I’m sure, his shoes thousands. He wears his hair in that classic gelled way that his father and grandfather probably did, in a way only a lifetime of money wears it. I sense that he may have realized that I am not like him; I also sense that it may be in my head. Either way, he couldn’t understand me, not really. I smile again to make it seem like I was looking because I was attracted to him, which he enjoys, and I say I was thinking about how beautiful the view would be if the city lights were joined by stars. He tells me that it’s impossible, and starts to explain light pollution, as if I don’t know, as if I’m a child. I ask him which he would prefer, if he could choose. I wonder if he will be honest or appease me to get lucky. The stars, of course, he says, because how else would one dream? I smile softly and look away, but I am not pleased with his answer. I am not pleased because he has chosen wrong; he is playing a game that has exhausted me, a game that I can’t help but participate in. He seems to think that this conversation is going well, probably because I keep smiling. It is just that I have come to realize that is the best reaction in circumstances where mustering a response is exhausting or impossible. Maybe it is going well, since I haven’t walked away, since I plan on feeding his desires anyway. He asks me why he hasn’t seen me before, since he definitely would have noticed me. I haven’t been around this level long, so I can’t blame him, but I also can’t guarantee that it is our first time sharing a room. He might have seen me before, on the other side, serving, sweeping, someone beneath him, and I can guarantee he definitely would not have noticed me. Either way, I don’t remember him, so I can’t scoff at his elementary flirtation. I play his game, ask him how come? This time, he is the one who looks away, too prideful to give a compliment yet too flustered to say anything back. 

He tells me to answer his question first, and I say that I am new around here. A coworker of mine invited me, and I’m still getting to know everybody. This is true enough not to be deemed a lie. A coworker did invite me, and there are some people whom I don’t know, but to say that I am ‘new’ gives the word a loose definition. Most people wouldn’t define being somewhere for a year as new, but in a place where everyone else has been around their entire lives, I think it counts. He bites his lip, as if he has used every other girl here to his satisfaction and is in dire need of new blood. It is that greed that I am running from, that consumes me, that disgusts me. It is the difference between where he comes from and where I have escaped; he is taught that this insatiable feeling is one to be fed, that everything and everyone is yours for the taking, that there is nothing you don’t deserve. Yet no matter how high I climb, no matter how honestly I acquire it all, I feel as if I have stolen everything I have, and I am not deserving of any of it. Sensing that I am returning to an endless spiral, I shift my focus back to him and say that it’s his turn to answer my question, to tell me why he would’ve noticed me. I know he has been preparing his response, trying to gauge the best way to compliment me, figure out the best way to heighten my desire according to the few minutes he has known me. He smiles and takes a short look out the window, and turns back, looking into my eyes until it is almost uncomfortable. There’s just something about you, he says. I’m speechless, mostly because I didn’t expect him to say the most generic thing I could think of. Irritated, I blurt out, well what is it then? Unphased and still holding eye contact, he says that he can tell I’m not here, that I see something else when I look out the window. I know he just wants me in his bed, but I can’t help but acknowledge that he’s right. I can’t help but think, or rather hope, that maybe he sees me. 

Standing up, I tell him to follow me as I walk to the window. It feels good having him next to me. I try to forget that it does. He watches me as we stand next to each other, my eyes locked below. I ask him what he sees when he looks down there. His eyes shift between me and the bustling streets below. I want him to answer correctly. Maybe I just want him. I see people living, he says. What do you see, you clearly want me to answer a certain way? That feeling rises inside me again, that desire I must stifle before it consumes me. I remind myself that what he wants from me is not what I want from him; he’ll be done with me before I get the kind of love I crave. He’s staring, waiting for a response. I see pain, I say. And it hurts to say, hurts to admit it. Having this conversation is admitting that I do want to be seen, to be held, to be known, and revealing that to myself means enduring the pain of not getting it. What do you mean, he asks. I say that the people down there try their entire lives, and never get to where they want to be. His eyes shift at what I’ve said. I should’ve known he wouldn’t understand, should’ve kept lying to myself about what I’m missing. Suddenly, I realize that most of the people who were behind us have left, and I take it as a chance to leave without taking another look at him. 

My face is hot, and I can feel sobs rising in my chest as I rush down the dark hallway out of the apartment. A hand grabs mine as I leave, and I know it’s his, but I can’t bring myself to turn around in case my eyes are already drowning. Wait, he yells, and I yell back at him to let go. He does, and I keep walking as he follows. Did I do something to upset you, he asks as I press the elevator button. His words ring around the hall, around my head, but I don’t answer. I feel the tears now, hot and creeping down my cheek as I stare a hole into the wall. He can tell I’m crying, I’m sure, because my hands keep wiping my face, and I’m starting to shake. The elevator finally opens, and he sees my puffy face as I turn to press number one. We’re standing side by side now, and he’s inching closer. What’s wrong, he pleads softly. I feel pathetic when anyone sees me cry, let alone a man I had just met. Embracing this new low, I ask him why he didn’t respond earlier. He puts a hand over his chin and glances at me quickly. You said that no one down there ever makes it, he says. I nod. Looking away, he continues: but you did. I am suddenly too aware that we are alone in an elevator. I give him a look, and he shifts, smiling awkwardly. I lied before, he says quietly, staring at the ground. I have seen you before.