Mall Eyes

She didn’t reject this one. Not that I could hear what she was saying - there was no audio with this camera set-up - but her body language was more welcoming this time. She didn’t busy herself with mindless tasks while he talked, instead she leaned against the glass display case, facing him with her chin in hand and a smile on her face. He was younger than the others that usually hit on her. This mall was stuffy and old, usually filled with stuffy and old people. But This One seemed closer to her age.

Maybe she was just bored, like me, in this deserted place. Her lone kiosk stood amongst numerous clothing stores with flash sale signs and holiday displays, cheerily looking out towards empty hallways. Mannequin families dressed in winter-wear, blank faces waiting expectantly for shoppers that would likely never come. Fixed expressions seeming to turn into disappointed frowns with the passing of each dull day.

Maybe Kiosk Girl was tired of being alone, too. Envious of the couples that walked hand-in-hand - when they deigned to visit the mall - wondering when she’d get to feel the warmth of another palm against hers. Clinging instead to a warm cup of burnt, overly sweet Starbucks to fill the void.

I leaned back against my unforgiving desk chair, tipping my head to gaze at the ceiling. Looks like it’s raining again. The rightmost ceiling tile was moist, the brown water stain darker now and beginning to drip. An incessant plip, plop. Nowhere near enough of a distraction. Almost a pleasant intrusion, reminding me of the many nothings that could be done, fixes that cannot be made.

I straightened from my backwards sprawl to slouch over the desk instead, forehead resting on folded arms. Listless with my meandering thoughts to keep me company. A girl from Macy's approached her kiosk once. Fiddling with the corner display until she was greeted with a friendly smile. I imagine pleasantries were exchanged. Macy's Girl touched her own hair after a compliment from Kiosk Girl, then left to buy two large Frappés from Starbucks. Was it an I-want-to-be-more-than-friends cold drink? So they could warm each other's hands afterward? Maybe. Kiosk Girl wasn't sure either, it seemed, so Macy's Girl left without a backwards glance.

Sometimes she stared across her kiosk into the neighboring clothing store. Window shopping, I once assumed. But one morning she perked up as someone rounded the corner from the employee entrance. It was one of the keyholders from the clothing store. She was a petite, well-dressed woman with an admittedly adorable pixie cut. Kiosk Girl watched her, eyes following her trek to unlock the outer gate of the storefront and disappear inside. Curious. From then on, I noticed her only watching the clothing store when Pixie Cut was working. I wonder if she knew how obvious she was being.

Time melted away in that security office. The wall clock's loud ticking dripped to puddle with the rain drops under that brown ceiling tile.

Propping my chin on folded arms, I turned my attention back to the monitor. It never left, really. Always fixated, wondering, imagining. That stupid rectangle glowing with what-if's and would-be's. Back to Kiosk Girl and This One. Now they were both looking down where he was touching her wrist, right above a dark spot that may have been a tattoo. She looked back up at him, smiled widely, lips forming words I could only guess at. His return smile was enough to reassure me that these two, at least, were on the same page. Unlike with Macy's Girl and Pixie Cut, whose pages weren't even in the same book, much less on the same shelf as Kiosk Girl's.

Maybe Kiosk Girl would get to feel that warmth. The one that gets too hot and sweaty at times, yet you cling to regardless, unwilling to let that other hand slip through your fingers. Knuckles uncomfortably tight against one another, secure.

Maybe I would get to feel it, too.