The Prettiest Face

A Short Story

I

Across the hall there was this girl studying all by herself, lost in her own world. Sat at one of those wooden desks that highlights faces in mysterious and romantic ways. This couldn’t be her could it? Definitely not, upon closer examination she was somewhat rounded and pudged. But, despite her irregularities there was a candid radiance in her myopic concentration. T. had only just stopped his work and this girl happened to be the first that his eyes fell upon after they were freed from his laptop.

He didn’t notice when she had gotten here —maybe even before him on that day. At this point he was scanning the scarcely populated hall once again. It was a grand place with an atrium that rose five stories, at the back of the building a massive window revealed a scene onto a snowy backstreet where sometimes little people would pass by wholly unaware that they were the aesthetic finishing touch of the inward painting conjured up in the minds of the library’s occupants.
And one such occupant was now onto another girl, sitting at another wooden desk, also alone. This one was different, she was remarkably beautiful and yet so unconcerned with herself. Another erudite reveler, lost in the dregs of course work. Yet she was so perfect in that way, thought T. . He wondered what she would sound like if he had ventured to say a word to her. Then all of a sudden she looked up from her work and locked eyes with her surprised spectator. T. couldn’t look away, he just stared at her with the same intense longing stare which he had already adopted in order to analyze her. His heart began to race as they remained staring at one another for second after second. Then she broke off her gaze and it all fizzled out in an instant. “What was that?! Why didn’t she do anything?” The girl had simply continued working as if nothing had happened. T. looked over his shoulder expecting to see something interesting right behind him but there was nothing.

Slipping into a daydream, T. imagined what it would have been like if she had invited him over, maybe with a wink or a finger wag. How they would chat and instantly connect and everything would fall into place —how nice it would be. He often imagined errant stares ending up in a way akin to that. Yet it was rare for his eyes to even lock with another to start with. That was why this occurrence was so extraordinary.

But in the end, this one too must be one of those whom he was destined to be apart from. He could find some imperfection in her features if he tried, she was a good one, very pleasing generally, but it was not meant to be. “If only I could find the prettiest girl, with the prettiest face,” T. thought, “then I would go up to her and ask her out on a date.” Then, he imagined, she would be charmed and fall for him head first. They would form the perfect couple and he would never have to feel lonely anymore. Yes, but he was so lonely and incomplete as things stood. These feelings always struck him renewed amidst his fantastical ruminations.

It appeared that his break was over now, the time had run on far past what he had planned for and work was calling him. Resigned, T. resumed clacking away at his keyboard on some stock pitch or something, trying to keep his mind from wandering to greener pastures as he worked.

II

At another time and perhaps on another day, T. spied a couple chatting idly among the crowds of peak library hours. This filled him with an otherworldly anxiety. This sight was, for him, one of the most terrible things which unfortunately had a sort of propensity to perpetually assail him. Their subtle happiness, their community and their togetherness. It was enough to conjure up an image of their entire collective lives.

To take a snapshot and compose a movie with it was one of T.’s great talents. Yet it was a talent that caused a great deal of discontent. The man who dreams a great many dreams sometimes finds it impossible to wake up. But still, as always, there was work to be done and so he was saved by his slave driver, distracted out from his distraction and sent into a more mundane form of torment. As he immersed himself in his work, T.’s anxiety decreased.

Later, T. happened upon something in his work which disturbed him. He had been assigned an article for one of his classes which covered marriage trends in a foreign country. It made him wonder, “how come they have it so good? Our insular society is part of the problem, isn’t it?” He knew that there was something deeply wrong. Perhaps in a more communal society people would get to know each other more naturally. That there would be avenues for fraternity —the so-called “third space”. Where were these things for him; why is everything so lonely?

There once was a pretty face that T. could remember. It was perhaps not the prettiest, but it was nice. This girl was in his orbit; among his acquaintances. From this position it was hardly hard to make contact with her and yet it was impossible to get to know her. One day she fell away however. On the day when T. had had enough of stargazing and rather fancied that he ought to, for once, become an astronaut. This dream was not realized, he tries not to think about this too much anymore, but it is among those things which simply occur to him now and then without his consent. There were many such ‘things’ for T., as there are for all of us —or so I like to believe.

On break again, T. was scanning the floor once more. He liked to take in the atmosphere slowly, sometimes he would keep himself perfectly still for a time and make a painting out of his field of view. At times like this everything became beautiful and integrated itself into the composition. It was a relaxing process. However, oftentimes these moments would not end through T.’s own choice but rather would be forcefully interrupted by some horrible distraction. This time it was another girl. She was exceptionally beautiful and particular to T.’s tastes. T. was a man that was naturally in pursuit of a specific object. What his tastes exactly were is not something I am prepared to reveal at this time. This girl was, as it appeared, at the library to the end of completing some work. This was evidenced by the laptop sitting in front of her on her computer case next to her strangely large water bottle. Despite this, she had somehow been consumed by another thing entirely. Her head was facing downwards and her eyes were buried in her lap. It was clear that she was watching something on her phone.

It was upon looking at this girl so lost in her phone that T. was struck with a terrible thought: she must be on a dating app. T. knew very little about dating apps and had vowed never to use them, yet in another sense he knew far too much. He was disgusted by them in fact, well, perhaps he would use them if he believed that they had any chance of working for him; but he knew they wouldn’t. Rather, they would only bring degradation and humiliation. T. knew this because he had seen it happen so many times before, or at least he had seen the statistics and posts online about it.

It was strange how people could become so engrossed and desperate, to turn the sacred act of courtship into a meat market. That they would keep trying despite the hopelessness and terror of it all. It was natural that the women of the library should indulge it however, it was to their own personal satisfaction, what could be better than a constant flow of attention and influence; unlimited options and no commitment.

The whole thing unnerved T., he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. Despite the girl’s beauty she had been marred by this contemplation surrounding her and now it became preferable to return to the task at hand. T. hoped that one day he would find someone like her who was free from her phone and prepared to receive him.

III

Sometimes when T. was in a somber mood and had to get into the library to do some serious work regardless, he would make his way to the basement instead of the open first floor. The basement was a stuffy place, its low ceilings and desks hidden away in corners made it the ideal domain for the self-concerned individual who could no longer bear the pain of the crowd and the glares of other people. Rarely did pretty faces grace this place. Even if they did, they would be hidden away from the public eye in most cases. Yet this basement was a truly bookish and voracious place, the bookshelves became the walls themselves as they merged with the floor and the ceiling creating a maze of sorts. D. himself was at a desk for one, already set up and gazing only at his laptop screen. The individual desks had blinders of sorts so that even if T. had the intention of being distracted, he would have to get out of his seat in order to become so. So, at times like these T. was working and only working, getting something done to no pleasure of his present self, wallowing in his solitude and isolation.

Then, about an hour after T. had first sat down at his place, something unexpected happened. He finished his work. T. checked his to-do list once, then he checked all the assignments for all of his classes and then he checked his to-do list again. Everything was crossed out. This was strange because T. had been fully expecting to be hard at work in the basement all night, and yet it was only eight in the evening and he was done. Understanding this he was struck with a feeling of melancholy as he got up from his desk and put his things in his backpack. After zipping it up he thought, “why shouldn’t I take a walk around?” Leaving his backpack on the floor where it was he casually proceeded to promenade among the bookshelves and wooden desks. He walked more slowly than usual as he read the spines of the books which his eyes happened to fall upon: “Theory of Statistical Computing” “Survey of Manitoba Geological Data (1980)” “Journal of Canadian Computing Issue LXII”. T. thought about nothing in particular as he did this, he only took in the scene and felt his place within it.

In this cramped and isolated world, T. began to enter deeper into himself, he began to interrogate his own disposition. Wandering around the destitute annals of the basement, it became clear that T. had an underground soul. An underground soul is one that is scorched by the light for it has not interacted with the light for too long. But was it destined to be this way, the choice to come into the basement was voluntary after all, if only someone could come into his life and show him the light once again… how long had T. been hoping for something like that he could not remember. Yet it never came, why? His life was not that bad, it was stable and featured good prospects despite its persistent tangs of suffering. Life was missing just that one thing: the prettiest face.

As T. rounded a corner he saw the first people he had along his walk. There were two girls talking together hovering over a laptop. T. listened into their conversation as he was still outside of their notice. One was talking to the other about dating of course, T. could hardly believe his ears as one of the women complained that she had been cheated on, she complained she wanted to give up on dating because she had so little success. Looking closely, T. could see that she was by no means ugly, his intrigue into the conversation increased. The other girl who was listening agreed enthusiastically and expressed similar discontent with her relationships. T.’s perception at this time became otherworldly and he wondered if he was dreaming. It was at this moment that one of the girls turned around to notice T. standing there looking stupid and rather shy. The girls were confused and unnerved by his still demeanor. “Hello?” one of them ventured to ask.

It took T. a couple of seconds to realize they had noticed him and were trying to engage him. “Oh hi. I didn’t mean to intrude, sorry.” “Umm, that’s alright but why are you just standing there?” “I was just walking by, have I been here that long?” “I don’t know, I just saw you there, it kind of scared me.” “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to come off that way.” “Yea, okay.” She smiled, “So why are you walking around the library basement this late? “I finished my studying early and figured I would walk around since I have nothing to do.” The girls were both looking at him and smiling coyly now, they must have thought that he was quite a strange character. T. wondered if he should leave, but he wanted to find a way to continue the conversation, somehow he had stumbled into having one after all this time. “So what are you guys working on?” The girls weren’t sure if they wanted to continue to engage this conversation. “... nothing anymore, just chatting. What were you working on?” “Just homework and studying for exams, regular stuff. Do you all usually study here?” “Yes actually, I’m surprised you haven’t run into us before.” “Oh, well I only come down here when I have an impending deadline.” It was at this point T. realized he should get going before the interaction took an even more painful turn, “Well, maybe I’ll see you all here some other time.” “Yea, maybe” there was a pause as T. began to walk away “What’s your name,” one of them asked as the other laughed embarrassingly. T. turned around “T— and yours?” The girl who had asked his name was standing while the other sat, she replied: “Nastenka”. Then, T. walked away confused and trying to remember her name and face.

***

Outside it was snowing in the late evening. One of few on the street at this hour, T.’s mind was turned to self-reflection. They spoke to him so easily and freely, or was it a trick, they were having a joke at his expense weren’t they? No, it didn’t seem like that at all. So was it that easy? What about that conversation they were having before they noticed him? They couldn’t mean such things truly, what complaints could they have of men. Why couldn’t they find him after all, there he was… waiting. Excluded and yet, ready to devote the world to the one who would look up from their phones from across the library and notice him. Weren’t they looking in the wrong places? Then after all, they spoke to him and even asked his name. Before the name he was anon anyways and yet they noticed him and brought him out from the shadows and into the… streetlights. Those streetlights which were ornamental to the sidewalks and guided his walk home. Looking up into their yellow light he could see the snowflakes falling clearly one by one. Above that, there was the dark infinite sky.

So, I should find them again. Now that I’m known, and at last, simply ask them out. But how did they look? Recalling their faces they became ever more beautiful than when he made his first impression. Yet, they were somewhat blurry. Then, it had to be done at least for the sake of getting another look at the girls. Maybe they would even say a word to him once more.

IV

The next day T. was sitting once more on the ground floor of the library, facing towards the front entrance, hoping that Nastenka and her friend would come through the doors. Last night it was difficult for him to sleep, after he got home his mind was still racing concerning all that had happened last night and whether he was really so certain about finding the girls again the next day. In the end his conviction did not change and yet his perplexity at exactly how he was going to execute his plan had increased.

T. was hardly getting any work done due to his preoccupations. The library was mostly full at a time like this on a standard school day and yet, he hardly bothered to look around or to take it all in. Instead he was already taken in by himself and his own obsessions. Sometimes he tried to stop thinking about it and yet… he couldn’t.

“How long have I lived in my own self-imposed isolation?” T. wondered. And why, more importantly why? Well that was obvious, it was of course, necessary. It was, of course, impossible for things to go any other way. Due to the folly of others by-and-large and the general way in which things are organized. The fundamental beauty of man never changed but of course the picture of his soul did. “What are you talking about?” T. monologued. “I have been a fool. Always looking onto the world and never participating in it. I have made myself into a blotch on a painting… Then I made myself the critic of the painting.” T. was not telling himself the full story but he was being more honest than usual.

He was in all this looking for something. There was an element missing from the painting that would make it satisfactory. Don’t you know that a man without contemplation is beautiful? But when a man sits down and begins to think, to think and to criticise, then his face morphs in all sorts of hideous ways. T. had read that somewhere before. Unfortunately because he contemplated his own painting this meant that there was now an ugly element within it.

But T. was looking for something to fix him and set things right. That was part of the problem. He was waiting for that something to walk through the doors of the library any second now. “And damn all my foolishness.” For T. was a romantic of the Russian type but also the classical type but also the contemporary type. So…

After almost three hours going on like this T. had almost lost his mind and was looking for a way to resolve his worries. It was at this moment when the two women walked into the library almost exactly as he had imagined. Yet, now that they were here, they moved in a flash and he had hardly any time to deliberate on how he would approach them. He sat at his desk in a disheveled state, perceiving that they were headed for the stairs he quickly stood up from his seat and moved to intercept them. As he approached he could see clearly, yes clearly, hers was the prettiest face. It shone in bright tones under fake blonde hair. It was an oblong face with smooth skin, her eyes were awkwardly placed in slanting shapes and highlights. There was redness and chubbiness and her eyelashes had been artificially extended. Yet, in spite of all the ugliness it did not matter. For he was set on completing his life with this woman. She would perhaps comfort his own ugly soul.

“Hello again” The two looked at him in confusion as they stopped in their tracks. “You’re Nastenka right?” T. was trying to sound confident and natural in what he said. “Yes… oh you’re that guy from last night.” “Yes, well, I wanted to ask you something.” It was at this moment that T.’s heart rate shot through the roof and he realized there was no backing down. They were looking at him afraid of what might come next, “Would you like to go out with me sometime?” with as little thinking as possible he forced it out. Patience is, of course, something that is incompatible with lonely souls and fraught minds. Nastenka blushed and her friend recoiled with cringe. Then she thought about what she would say, T. just stood there as if waiting for a bullet from a firing squad. “No, I’m sorry, I barely know you.” “Hmm,” T. didn’t know what to say. The two girls walked away to avoid any further embarrassment. They later laughed at the encounter and thought of ways to avoid ever encountering him again. This was an unnecessary precaution as T. himself would by no means risk running into them again for he knew that the pain would be too acute to bear.

What he was thinking at this time he did not know. T. walked back to where his things were at his desk. Sitting down he rested his face in his palm, he was upset and yet he did not know how to cry and so he did not. T. sat there, doing nothing, for three hours. During that time he hardly looked up from the desk, he bounced the same thoughts around in his head over and over and came up with no useful results. More than what he could have done better, he wondered why he even tried at all. No matter what angle he tackled that terminal-why from, could he find the line that would lead him out of his question. His had become the library of Alexandria, with all the wisdom of the world, and yet still in darkness.

Then T. walked out into the outer darkness and began to walk home. As he walked, T. wondered at his own actions, “and what if I sat there in that library for the rest of my life, what would change? And if I go home what will change? I don’t know, because I haven’t the first clue as to my object.” The object, why did he peril so over women? “Am I alone by my own volition, or by fate… It must be fate and yet I am torn up over myself. So did I do a good thing? Or a bad one?” Rejection is not necessarily the marker of failure but rather the marker of a man brave enough to try. “Well is that it then? And damn my foolishness.” T. wasn’t satisfied with satisfying answers.

Almost home now, he was forced to accept the truth as he turned the corner onto his street. “Maybe in the wrong way, but I did the right thing. Yet I was wrong for feeling raw about it. And damn myself for worrying about such nonsense in the first place!” With that T. was ready to come off his obsession with women, along with his obsession with his own loneliness. Not that his malcontent had dissipated, the unease continued to churn his stomach and keep him up as he lay in bed that night. Therefore, he was uncertain whether his convictions were as pure as they ought to be. But it didn’t matter, he was done and tomorrow he would go back into the library and work —only work.

V

In the early morning T. walked into the library as he normally would. As he took his place at some random seat on his own, he opened his laptop and checked the work that he had to complete that day. He was pleasantly surprised, even elated, to find that he only had one assignment left before he could take a break for a while. From that point on he sat with his nose buried in his laptop working, couples walked by to his general obliviousness. Sometimes he would stop to take his eyes off the screen, go to the bathroom, or get some water and yet scarcely anything bothered him.

And then, just like that, he finished his assignment. It only took a couple of hours and T. felt ready for lunch. He packed up his things in his backpack and turned towards the front door to leave. As he walked towards it, T. wistfully took in his surroundings, appreciating the subtle rays of light as they streamed through the grand windows. It was during this moment that once more a girl managed to catch his eye, before thinking about it his gaze magnetized towards her.

She was exceptionally beautiful, in a conventional sense as well. It was unclear what she was doing, sitting at a single table on the second floor overlooking the entrance. It appeared that she didn’t have anything on her desk, nor did she have any earphones in her ears. She was simply looking around.

That was when he realized she was now looking at him. For a moment they stared at each other, until T. realized something and disengaged. He simply walked towards the doors as he had planned to in all peace and indifference. Exiting the library, he reminded himself that he was trying to stop thinking about women for once.

On the way home he walked very slowly and spent a lot of time taking in the scenery. T. took notice of the flowers on every lawn, the people who sat on their porches and those who walked by him. He listened to the birds and watched as the crows flew by him.

By the time he got home he was a little confused. Having free time like this and directing energy away from searching for the prettiest face, he had no idea what to do. After milling about for a while and making himself some food and coffee, he thought to himself deeply. Then at last he sat down and opened a book he had been meaning to get through for quite a long time.

Epilogue

A couple of years later, the man named T. ran into an unlikely woman. By this time he was somewhere far away from that library where he once spent all his good days. In some ways he missed it but mostly he was glad to move on.

This woman also happened to frequent libraries. They met at a book club —or something like that. It happened so naturally that it took both of them by surprise, one day they realized that they would like to be together, and then they were. Did she have the prettiest face? No, probably not. It didn’t matter, what did was that it worked out. Because the man named T. had worked it out for himself before this came to pass anyways. For the woman’s part so had she, therefore the two remained together for a long time, maybe even until death.

Sometimes the man named T. would wonder back to his days of self torment, especially if he did something particularly stupid that day. He came to understand himself as I hope you can understand him as well —as you might understand yourself. Another psychological casualty of our age.

The end.