expedition

Her hair is red, but not the harsh sort of red. Instead, the red that glistens just the right amount in the artificial glow of the neon lights that decorate the food court, red hair like on the girl you envied in high school. It was the perfect sort of red, the kind you couldn't buy from a bottle, and her hair is what caught my attention. Her coat, a vibrant turquoise, comes close in second place. My eyes move from her coat to her pleasant face--pretty and proportioned. Her lips, stained a perfect pink, match rosy cheeks and porcelain skin, and her bangs gently graze the bridge of her nose. Her beauty is quite apparent as she bats her eyelashes at her older and slightly awkward male companion. He is quite ordinary n looks, her beauty only magnifying his plainness. Funny how one's appearance is affected by their company: the plain making the beautiful more beautiful and the beautiful making the plain more plain. His foot moves closer to hers. Tension. A pause, a glance, a stifled laugh. My gaze moves from Red to the table in front of me. French fries, bathed in cheese and gravy are tempting my stomach, but I continue to write. The enticing smells of juicy hamburgers and fresh cut onion rings , tangy shanghai noodles and crunchy spring rolls, meaty lasagna and freshly tossed chicken Caesar salad temptingly waft around me. The man to my right seems ravenous with hunger as he tears through his sandwich. I envision a succulent morsel of that steaming Philly cheese steak teasing my taste buds with delight, as false cries of neglect emanate from my stomach. False, because I have already eaten dinner, but my stomach, possessing a mind of its own seems to have forgotten. It decides to use my gaze as a weapon in its plight to seek sustenance. Within moments, my eyes are drawn to an oil-drenched slice of pizza, grease staining the bottom of the flimsy paper plate. Clearly, hunger is not health conscious. But I can't stop for pseudo famine, so I continue to write, and my eyes shift back to Red. With her head heavy on her hand, she looks distraught. "It's not working,"she says, slightly hushed, though hardly discreet. She stares at him in anger, the anger quickly defeated by vulnerability. She rolls her pupils back in a desperate attempt to fight away an army of tears. They are beating her with ease, and a glossy wash of salt forms over her helpless eyes. I stare in disbelief. I cannot believe it; my very own soap opera unfolding live in front of me. I almost feel guilty for exploiting their lives in my little spiral notebook, but not guilty enough, so I'll indulge myself.

She wipes a tear from her face with the cuff of her sleeve. He seems unfazed by them, and as she sinks further into her seat, his hand motions are more sure and robust, cutting through the air like knives. She heaves a sigh, and I can't help but wonder why helplessness, vulnerability, and loneliness, clearly written in the green of her eyes, make her even prettier than before. At this moment, I want to tell her that she will be fine. I want to be her best friend. I want to buy her a frozen yogurt from the stand that acts as a backdrop to her red hair, turquoise coat and glossy tears.

"ICE CREAM!"screams a ponytailed little girl in fluffy pink fleece. She looks like Christina Ricci in Mermaids, big round eyes and a button nose. If this were a movie, I'd buy her that ice cream. We'd develop a sisterly rapport, and I'd teach her how to love and laugh and put on lipstick. And in return, she'd draw me pictures, and tell me how much she wanted to be like me. But this isn't a movie, so she continues to pout as her father says no. I look at her sympathetically, and she returns with a vacant stare, knowing my empathy will not equal frozen sugary goodness. I turn back to Red, and she's better now. Her full lips glide gracefully across her mouth, revealing a set of faultless, straight teeth. Her companion lets his hand rest tenderly on her thigh. She shares another flash of pearly whites before heading to the yogurt stand. As she makes her selection, he waits tentatively in his chair, mind absorbed in deep thought. Chocolate frozen yogurt--her weapon of choice.

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