In a Sea of Non-Believers

         Guffaw.  Guffaw.  Guffaw.  “Isn’t that right, Will?”  An elbow to his rib.  “Isn’t that right?”  Will doubled slightly at the introduction of Lee‘s dimpled elbow into his side.  This undignified movement resembled that of the ever-ticklish Pillsbury doughboy save the sickeningly cute giggle that under-baked biscuit usually emitted.  Actually, a subdued and abrupt cough of shock replaced the expected “Hoo-hoo!”  Holding his side, Will regained himself, muttering his assent. 
         Uproarious laughter ensued, and the chatter and boasts of slightly inebriated men continued. His assent had been rhetorical after all.  Lee‘s need for verification of his barroom encounters had been more of an afterthought brought on by the liquid fire in Lee‘s rotund stomach.  Tonight was a night of tall tales and bald-faced lies; every man in the intimate circle understood that his veracity would not be scrutinized.  As such, Will’s agreement was neither necessary nor noticed.
         In fact, the object that had driven him to distraction had also gone unnoticed by Will’s boy-men colleagues.  Will had noticed, perhaps because he had fortuitously been standing in full view of the sitting area of the small billiards café he seemed to haunt so frequently or because his last drink had been hours ago.  Whatever the reason, he saw her.  He didn’t see much of her, of course, and her movements were limited to casually gliding to her seat, some coffee drink in hand, to sit with the serene cross of her legs at the ankles.  Her raven hair had been cut short, to the jaw, and revealed her bangle-bedecked ears.
         Will had always been a great watcher of people.  People-watching was often his sole reason for still attending St. Peter’s on 8th and Rosemary.  As a little boy, his setting of choice had been St. Dismus’, the only Catholic Church in his small hometown.  People of all shapes and sizes attended that church.  Some were short and thin with blonde hair.  Some were large and wide with black hair.  Some were tall and slender with obnoxiously large noses.  But, it wasn’t the people themselves that enchanted Will; it was their mannerisms.  He had always been particularly fond of examining gaits, and when he was close enough, eye movement.  Something about the way of walking and fixations of the eye exposed the true identity of each mass-goer’s character.  The non-believers were easy to pick out; their eyelids were often heavy despite the exuberance typical of their young age.  If not sleepy, their eyes never rested, and thoughts seemed to vacillate rapidly with every desultory dash of the eyes. They received communion with a quiet shuffle, their hands folded in repose, mimicking perfectly their believing counterparts.  Despite their airs, Will could always detect their boredom and impatience with the Church and its ceremonies.  Insincerity is impossible to mask completely.
         In similar fashion, sincerity is equally difficult to conceal—most probably because no one desires to conceal it.  Believers, Will found, displayed their hearts with profound ease.  Their often-aged eyelids were usually shut after communion, but their posture and tenseness of brow seemed to denote deep thought and prayer and not the physical and mental torpor of nearly napping non-believers.  And every so often, Will would observe another people-watcher, usually another child, young husband, or teenager, staring wide-eyed back at him.  Both would turn their gaze.
         With his twenty-some years experience in people-watching, Will imagined himself a good judge of character.  Unlike his colleagues that evening, every one’s sincerity was always questioned, not by their words, but by their eyes.  And, now, as the rancorous camaraderie continued, punctuated periodically by the clack of pool balls, Will attempted to assess her character.  But as he was searching her eyes, eyes that were expertly rimmed by charcoal Revlon and black-to-the-tip lashes, he found himself lost in the mess of her hair and the curve of her neck.  He followed her neck down to the silk scarf she had tied loosely at the fair-skinned base and followed the paisley pattern even further where the ends of the scarf rested most vexingly on her…
         “Will,” Lee‘s fat, deep voice boomed.  Lee knocked the cue Will had been leaning on with his cue.  The slight shift was enough to break Will’s gaze.  “Your shot,” Lee spat.
         Will asked sheepishly, “Uhm, are we solids or stripes?”
         The group bellowed with laughter.
         In a drunken gesture of friendship, his best mate, Marcus, gave Will’s shoulder a sound slap.  He took a drink of his Irish Red before chiding, “Dude, where is your head tonight?”  Another drink.  “You’re solids with Buddha over there.”
         Buddha—it was not a racist remark.  Indeed, that was how Lee introduced himself.  He was Nepalese, and, as his moniker suggested, characteristically portly.  Upon introduction, he always explained, “Name’s Lee, but please call me Buddha.  The latter sounds less snively and generic than Lee.  Besides, who could forget a fat Asian man named Buddha?”  Openly addressing his appearance allowed Buddha to disarm most snide and offensive remarks, as his acceptance of his heritage and size projected outwardly a confidence that seemed as rubbery as his tummy.  Also, Buddha had an uncanny knack for imparting insightful, sometimes coarse, tidbits at odd intervals.
         “Dipshit’s head is in the clouds.  Probably some girl.  Probably Mindy again,” Lee commented.  Will aimed for the corner pocket.  Scratch.  “Good God, man.  Get a grip.  You wanted to end that, remember?”
         Will straightened, “Sure, I remember.”  To avoid attracting the girl’s attention, he continued, “Yeah, I remember.”  He rested on his cue again.  “She wanted to get serious.  I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.”
         Marcus laughed, rising from his haughty lean on the end of the pool table.  “Yeah, serious.  One year without a ring should be serious.”  Ball seven sunk in the corner pocket.  “My last girlfriend panicked at eight months.  You should have seen it coming.”
         But Will wasn’t listening.  He was looking over at the woman that had so distracted him before.  Where was he?  Ah, right.  Her breasts… No! No, her eyes.  He found, however, his eyes had already picked up where he had left off earlier.  She was well-proportioned, slender, but not skinny.  Her fitted white tee could not hide her advantage, and the way her dark wash jeans hung about her hips revealed a supple waist.  She wore flip-flops, black ones, the kind that she’d probably had for years but never had the heart to throw away.  Returning to her eyes, he found her focusing on her coffee, idly twirling the stir stick.  A man joined her, setting his coffee down in a rush and giving his hand a shake to ease the minor pains of carrying a hot cup.
         Cough.  “Go.”  Will went.
         His eyes quickly returned to the pair sitting at the table.  He was well-dressed, a business man of sorts.  He must have been off that day because he sported no tie and no jacket, just a white button-up shirt and a pair of grey slacks.  Leather shoes, of course.  Will guessed him to be approaching forty-five.  After all, a man, even a successful one, in his twenties or thirties would never wear slacks on his day off.  He engaged the woman in conversation.  She smiled easily, responding occasionally with a chuckle.  Her eyes, Will noticed, darted frequently to her coffee.  Quite suddenly, she looked at Will.  Both turned their gaze.
         Blue.  Her eyes were blue.  After shooting and missing most famously, he looked again.  The man opposite her had wrapped his hand over hers, probably as a subtle means of capturing her attention.  She was smiling, still twirling the stir stick with her free hand.  And, suddenly, her eyes became rather large.  She said something very quietly, but Will, having experience only in reading eyes and not lips, could not decipher what she had said.  The gentleman began to rise, and to the surprise of both Will and the girl in question, one of his knees found the floor, his hand still grasping hers as he went down.    She seemed speechless as her free hand covered her mouth.  She shot her gaze at Will.  He turned away.
         “Non-believer,” he thought smugly to himself.  When he returned his gaze, the girl seemed to be muttering exasperatedly, “What are you doing? What are you doing?”  The man continued with his proposal and finally pulled a peerless diamond ring out of his pocket.  Although Will could see only the man’s back and his bobbing head of brown hair, he imagined he heard the man say, “Darling, will you spend the rest of your life with me?”  Will imagined his bated breath.  And in that moment, the girl’s eyes flickered to Will, the easy observer, and back again.  She began nodding.  The message from her lips seemed unmistakable now;  “Yes, yes, yes, I will,” seemed to be their repeated reply. 
         Will had not been the only observer, it seemed, as the café broke out in applause.  The couple rose together and embraced, kissed, and embraced again.  Her chin rested over his shoulder with her eyes closed, but when they opened, they shot first to Will.  At this point, even Will’s friends had joined in the clapping.  They were not aware of the reason for the applause, only that natural inclination bid them to participate.  She hugged her beau tighter, as if to reaffirm her answer, her eyes finally breaking contact with Will’s.  The embrace ended, and the two paused.  They departed quite suddenly, as though inspired by recent events to enjoy the cool, moonlit evening on the city’s sidewalks.  Will’s eyes followed the pair.  He could not help feeling pity for the man as she clung to his proffered elbow.  The bell above the door jingled as they crossed the threshold.
         He shrugged.  “Non-believer,” he mused inaudibly. Returning to the game fully focused now, Will sunk the ten ball into the far corner pocket, proclaiming boastfully, “The man’s back, fellas.  The man’s back!”  He blew the end of his cue as though it were a hot-barreled six shooter.
         “’Bout time,” Buddha grumbled.