There was nothing. Nothing stopping him going to talk to her. The possibilities swam around in his head like a school of intoxicated jellyfish. He felt mildly ill. It was as if he was leaning out over a precipice getting ready to jump. The potentiality pulled at him. He looked around the room, trying to appear aloof, taking in the aromas and sights of the bar. She was there though, even when he was not looking at her, a kind a smudge on his consciousness that he could not wipe away.
Why couldn’t he decide to get up and go over there? His body felt heavy and rebellious, he wasn’t sure if it would do what he told it to. His arms seemed to sneer at him, his legs laugh. So many possibilities, options, consequences. Nothing particularly compelling. He was sitting in a nowhere zone, anything was possible. He had his introductory sentence picked out, a smooth fearless face on, he was ready. So why wouldn’t he move? He looked at his hands, willing a finger to change itself in some way. His index finger does, then his pinkie in a blatant disregard for his intention. There is nothing connected, he doesn’t control his hands, they’re in control of themselves, the bastards. They float out there, making themselves known, but still seem to not be his, they’re separated. It’s as if they are calling out over a great distance to him.
Disgusted, he pulls his head up and tries to distract himself. The floor is slippery with beer, a dull light illuminates the room. It casts a half light on the woody world of the bar, people’s faces diffuse slowly at a distance. Ok this is it, he says to himself. Get ready. He looks up and over his surrounds, the angle between his sight and hers slowly being devoured in the murk. His legs start to move, he has beat them he thinks triumphantly. His gaze finally arrives at her position.
She’s gone.