It's a busy evening at the coffee shop.
From my viewpoint in this red chair in an inconspicuous corner of the cafe, everything looks normal. Or maybe that's just ridiculous because in actual fact, everything is normal, so let me promptly amend that with this obvious fact: it's me that's abnormal. But from this quiet corner, sitting alone because my good friend Clark has once again ditched my company in favor of the lovely Lana Lang who happens to be without her jock boyfriend tonight, I'm almost invisible. Everyone's wrapped up in their own social lives, and I feel almost normal.
Do you ever wonder if everyone has an ulterior motive for anything? Let's take a simple evening having coffee at a coffee shop. Are you there for their cappuccinos or the fact that it's where half of the young people in town assemble? Are you there to meet your friends or are you there to be seen?
I was sixteen once, although it feels like light years ago. I remember the peer pressure and the shit you have to go through to be liked and accepted, even respected. But it's the same thing over and over again: there's always one hang-out place where everyone goes to. And for some reason, you will always be drawn to it. To join the camaderie of joy and laughter with friends. Even if you have none.
Believe me, it doesn't change. From sixteen to twenty-one, it doesn't change.
Only thing that changed for me is the venue. In Smallville, I don't even have to try. I'm seen everywhere. At the coffee shop, in my office, strolling the streets, touring the plant, in your homes and in your nightmares.
And yet I sit here in the busiest place in town and hope to be invisible. Invisible in my black suit and bald head.
Why?
Everyone has an ulterior motive, whether they're aware of it or not is their problem. My certain ulterior motive is a big enough reason for me to come here, all the way from a God awful Board Meeting during a God awful day in a God awful place with God awful people. I have all the discomforts of a shitty long day taking its toll on my neck and my spine.
And believe me, I don't need coffee, I need a shower. I don't need a red couch, I need a bed. I don't need to sit here, I need to sleep.
It's 9:30 p.m. on a Friday night and I'd rather be anywhere but here.
The pathetic millionaire with no one to talk to.
But then I see her walk in and everything changes.
My Ulterior Motive comes to the cofee shop every Friday evening at half past nine, always after she finishes up her paste-ups or whatever they call it for her prized newspaper, The Torch. The only thing she seems to talk of with pride. She would come in, her face tired but satisfied and her blue eyes would automatically scan the area for a tall dark haired boy wonder by the name of Clark Kent, who she would usually find kissing the pert ass that is Lana Lang's. And for a split second, a shadow would pass over her eyes, a shadow of acute disappointment and pain, and then just as fast as it came, it would pass. With a slight toss of her head and a smile glued to her face, she would make it go away. And no one would notice.
But I would. I notice everything about Chloe Sullivan.
I know that she smells of fresh green apples, a smell so tangy and refreshing that closing my eyes and bathing in the scent of it brings me to a fantasy of her in my arms, lazily wrapped around each other on a bright day, surrounded by those fruits. When she's near me, I can lean forward and catch the subtle whiff of strawberries in her hair, and imagine my face buried in its softness.
I know there's a mole right beneath her collarbone. I know she has an answer for everything. I know she takes no shit from anyone. I know she loves her friends. I know that she doesn't have a lot of friends, and I know that she makes a great effort in showing that she doesn't care. I know she would do anything for those close to her and this is exhibited every day. Sitting back and watching her best friend chase a dream while her own heart breaks.
I know she's in love with Clark.
I know the sound of her laughter, appreciatively loud at particularly good jokes. Not tinkling like the laughter I hear from most girls and women, obliged to further their feminity with little giggles in the presence of men. I know that she's the most real person I could ever meet within a hundred mile radius.
I know she has no feelings for me.
I know her eyes have expressions that cannot be captured by any great artist. I know the quickness of her eyes portray the quickness of her mind and temper, shadowed dark blue in an angry mood, bright and dancing when happy. I know how they flicker when she observes something of interest to her, and I know how observant she is about things around her. But not observant enough to notice that the bald man in black in the corner of the coffee shop has come here from a very long and shitty day, just to watch her, and he would be content in doing that always.
I know that she's quirky and different from everyone else, and I know that she struggles to stay that way.
I know I love her for all things wrong and right about her.
I know that she can never be like Lana Lang, with her perfect features and perfect tragedy, and I know that I don't care.
I know Chloe thinks about that, all the time.
With that in mind, I also know that Clark's a fool.
And so. I sit here every Friday evening at 9:30 p.m., no matter what mood I'm in or where I came from or if I even feel like having goddamn coffee, sitting in a corner with a certainty that she will stroll into the cafe soon. Usually she would join me with no hesitation, if Clark was by my side and Whitney close to Lana's. But I know I intimidate her enough for her to hesitate approaching me when I'm alone, until lost with the realization that she has no one else to sit with, she would tentatively join me, asking for my permission first, as if I will ever say no to her company.
Then I will experience the magic that is Chloe Sullivan, and it will all be worth it.
Even if I have to sit back and watch her chasing a dream while my own heart breaks.
From my viewpoint in this red chair in an inconspicuous corner of the cafe, everything looks normal. Or maybe that's just ridiculous because in actual fact, everything is normal, so let me promptly amend that with this obvious fact: it's me that's abnormal. But from this quiet corner, sitting alone because my good friend Clark has once again ditched my company in favor of the lovely Lana Lang who happens to be without her jock boyfriend tonight, I'm almost invisible. Everyone's wrapped up in their own social lives, and I feel almost normal.
Do you ever wonder if everyone has an ulterior motive for anything? Let's take a simple evening having coffee at a coffee shop. Are you there for their cappuccinos or the fact that it's where half of the young people in town assemble? Are you there to meet your friends or are you there to be seen?
I was sixteen once, although it feels like light years ago. I remember the peer pressure and the shit you have to go through to be liked and accepted, even respected. But it's the same thing over and over again: there's always one hang-out place where everyone goes to. And for some reason, you will always be drawn to it. To join the camaderie of joy and laughter with friends. Even if you have none.
Believe me, it doesn't change. From sixteen to twenty-one, it doesn't change.
Only thing that changed for me is the venue. In Smallville, I don't even have to try. I'm seen everywhere. At the coffee shop, in my office, strolling the streets, touring the plant, in your homes and in your nightmares.
And yet I sit here in the busiest place in town and hope to be invisible. Invisible in my black suit and bald head.
Why?
Everyone has an ulterior motive, whether they're aware of it or not is their problem. My certain ulterior motive is a big enough reason for me to come here, all the way from a God awful Board Meeting during a God awful day in a God awful place with God awful people. I have all the discomforts of a shitty long day taking its toll on my neck and my spine.
And believe me, I don't need coffee, I need a shower. I don't need a red couch, I need a bed. I don't need to sit here, I need to sleep.
It's 9:30 p.m. on a Friday night and I'd rather be anywhere but here.
The pathetic millionaire with no one to talk to.
But then I see her walk in and everything changes.
My Ulterior Motive comes to the cofee shop every Friday evening at half past nine, always after she finishes up her paste-ups or whatever they call it for her prized newspaper, The Torch. The only thing she seems to talk of with pride. She would come in, her face tired but satisfied and her blue eyes would automatically scan the area for a tall dark haired boy wonder by the name of Clark Kent, who she would usually find kissing the pert ass that is Lana Lang's. And for a split second, a shadow would pass over her eyes, a shadow of acute disappointment and pain, and then just as fast as it came, it would pass. With a slight toss of her head and a smile glued to her face, she would make it go away. And no one would notice.
But I would. I notice everything about Chloe Sullivan.
I know that she smells of fresh green apples, a smell so tangy and refreshing that closing my eyes and bathing in the scent of it brings me to a fantasy of her in my arms, lazily wrapped around each other on a bright day, surrounded by those fruits. When she's near me, I can lean forward and catch the subtle whiff of strawberries in her hair, and imagine my face buried in its softness.
I know there's a mole right beneath her collarbone. I know she has an answer for everything. I know she takes no shit from anyone. I know she loves her friends. I know that she doesn't have a lot of friends, and I know that she makes a great effort in showing that she doesn't care. I know she would do anything for those close to her and this is exhibited every day. Sitting back and watching her best friend chase a dream while her own heart breaks.
I know she's in love with Clark.
I know the sound of her laughter, appreciatively loud at particularly good jokes. Not tinkling like the laughter I hear from most girls and women, obliged to further their feminity with little giggles in the presence of men. I know that she's the most real person I could ever meet within a hundred mile radius.
I know she has no feelings for me.
I know her eyes have expressions that cannot be captured by any great artist. I know the quickness of her eyes portray the quickness of her mind and temper, shadowed dark blue in an angry mood, bright and dancing when happy. I know how they flicker when she observes something of interest to her, and I know how observant she is about things around her. But not observant enough to notice that the bald man in black in the corner of the coffee shop has come here from a very long and shitty day, just to watch her, and he would be content in doing that always.
I know that she's quirky and different from everyone else, and I know that she struggles to stay that way.
I know I love her for all things wrong and right about her.
I know that she can never be like Lana Lang, with her perfect features and perfect tragedy, and I know that I don't care.
I know Chloe thinks about that, all the time.
With that in mind, I also know that Clark's a fool.
And so. I sit here every Friday evening at 9:30 p.m., no matter what mood I'm in or where I came from or if I even feel like having goddamn coffee, sitting in a corner with a certainty that she will stroll into the cafe soon. Usually she would join me with no hesitation, if Clark was by my side and Whitney close to Lana's. But I know I intimidate her enough for her to hesitate approaching me when I'm alone, until lost with the realization that she has no one else to sit with, she would tentatively join me, asking for my permission first, as if I will ever say no to her company.
Then I will experience the magic that is Chloe Sullivan, and it will all be worth it.
Even if I have to sit back and watch her chasing a dream while my own heart breaks.