Before you begin reading, note I am not a creative writer, nor do I try to be. I am often overcome with great ideas that soon become great nothings because I lose patience too quickly.
In my American Literature class, we are learning about Henry James and his realist style. I thought I would tinker with the idea subtly.
This came to me, and was written, in close to ten minutes, so know it may never be my best work. But I hope you enjoy it either way.
The stranger was tall, thin and well-shaven; he mumbled through dull teeth words masked under a tone of disinterest. He had just exited a meeting with her boss, and he looked just as displeased as he did when he entered the office. No amount of disparagement uttered could turn women from him. His pronounced jaw, only moving to let out a few syllabic grunts, remained a mystery. She imagined little elves—not kin to Legolas, but possibly of the Keebler surname—skillfully chiseling at bone until the definition was seemingly divine.
The platonic stranger moved across the room, delighting others but rarely delighting himself. No smirk, no courteous chuckle, no eye-contact with anyone shorter than he—he was above it all.
She watched him closely—she did not trust him—and breathlessly witnessed his quick exit from the room. The moment he was gone several women watched him indiscriminately through the window while the rest of the group relaxed. The worst was over, and she could continue with her work.
To the hills of Hollywood, strewn with debris, short skirts and missing underwear, she was sure it would have been worth it to lose all of her dignity to someone who cares for nothing. However, she had logos on her side.
This was not Disney. Beasts cannot be tamed into beauties. Neither was it worth the effort to try.