He hadn't always been. Plastic I mean. Static. Absent in the sense when there's no movement, no one notices you. Or worse, they do notice and wish they hadn't, preferring the company of others, more human like them, more companionable. He couldn't remember when he wasn't Plasticman most of the time. Pre adolescence probably. And those infrequent moments when he wasn't plastic, moments of charm which might not have surprised others, those being charmed, surprised the shit out of him. But lately it seemed as if he might not be so plastic anymore.
When are you old enough to know enough to know enough is enough?
"How old are you?" she asked him. A rude question, especially if the shoe were on the other foot, you know, petite and delicate being asked by massive and ungainly. But she being young and he being decades older, well, it had a purpose that made it not rude.
"Old," he answered.
"Not that old," she objected.
They smiled.
"How old?" she insisted.
"I could be your father."
"I hope not," she said.
Another smile shared, this one much more complicated. Hers revealed the verb she used, "hope," had been appropriate. His revealed his confusion. And hope as well, though guilt twisted it, contorted it, made it misshapen, unattractive.
He had long experience with the unattractive. Not physically, at least not until recently where age began transforming him from the inside out. Like Dorian Gray's portrait or that Twilight Zone where a gift of a mask turns out to distort the face revealing the truth of ugliness in a person's character.
No, physically he couldn't be described as unattractive. When he was her age, he had looks that, while not conventionally handsome, too soft bordering on pretty, it attracted the opposite sex. The bit of prettiness actually attracted the same sex, but he never wanted that. Though his shyness and a lack of awareness of his attractiveness kept him limited in sex partners, it didn't limit hopeful eyes from trying to catch his attention, especially since his height made him stand out. I suppose for the sluttier of the girls, it also promised a more substantial cock to fuck. Another factor in gaining more sexual experiences he had never really considered.
No, being unattractive had more to do with his character or lack thereof and his clueless understanding of dress and even hygiene and, probably worst of all, his knack for turning conversations into exercises in discomfort. His plastic aspect.
Sure, he had friends in high school and then colleges. But, while many of his friends drew friendship as easily as drawing breath, he had to work at it. To sustain friendship, he had to do all the work. No one called him, he called them. No one stopped by, he intruded on their spaces. And when the social environments of schools ended, so did friendships. Oh, he had made an occasional friend in his work environments, but that dried up as well when he moved from the more social climes of record stores to the closed in solitary spaces of a print shop.
Which made the situation of the young woman sitting beside him both unique and peculiar. A situation that had lasted nearly a year and had grown into as strong a friendship as either one of them had known, even if it remained exclusive to work, to breaks and brief after work conversations. Perhaps it had something to do with her being unique and peculiar. In a way they were two peas in a pod, a pod he had figured would be a strictly solo vehicle.
"Uhm, you want to see some movies?" he asked her, his eyes shying away. It was a huge step for him.
"Movies as in plural?" she smirked.
"Uhm, yeah. This weekend there's an international film festival, and I..."
"Cool," she said.
Her smile was infectious. So pretty. Features on her deep brown face, long and lean like the rest of her, just so pretty. Twice her age and as pale as she was dark, they did share long and lean and pretty, though that last aspect of him had all but faded, and hers positively glowed.
Much later that day, after seeing a movie set in and made by people from her homeland, Somalia, they strolled hand in hand through the cool early spring night, traipsing around one of his alma maters, lost in thought, silent, but together.
"Let's sit," he said, gesturing towards a bench in the Quad, the center of the university.
"Sure," she smiled.
"How old were you when you left?" he asked her, settling close to her, touching knees as he shifted his torso and head to attend to her response.
"Five, barely cognizant," she replied.
"Cognizant," he chuckled.
"Don't do that," she muttered.
"What?"
"Don't condescend. I get enough of that from my family."
"Sorry. I just find it remarkable. I mean I find you remarkable. Just a year out of high school and you talk better than me, and me with my masters degree."
"That's because I'm smarter than you."
"That you are," he chuckled.
"Take me home," she said.
Hand in hand, silently, they walked to his car that had nothing special about it like nothing special about him; a four door Japanese compact, even with a silver skin, the most popular color.
He twisted the embedded key twice, unlocking the passenger side. They climbed in.
"Where to?" he asked her.
They had not separated. After leaving work, they had eaten dinner at a nice vegetarian restaurant, and headed to the first of three movies. So he hadn't picked her up. He had no idea where she lived.
