The Weird and the Strange XVII: Lapresha Delveau

Words: 1,703

Rating: PG-13.  Some mildly objectionable verbiage is used in this piece, but most of the offensive language is in the physical description of the character.

{Disclaimer: The name Lapresha Delveau was chosen arbitrarily.  I know no person named Lapresha Delveau, and any similarities to anyone named Lapresha Delveau are purely coincidental. This story Lapresha Delveau is a work of fiction.}

Lapresha Delveau

“Excuse me,” said a man in a faux London Fog.  He was talking to one of the most stunning women I have seen in some time. “Does your man treat you right?”

“What?” she asked.  I’m not sure if she didn’t hear him properly, or if she couldn’t believe what she just heard.

A fella hears something like this, and he’s bound to stick around.  We were in the magazine section of a Barnes & Noble, the automotive magazines to be exact. I had no interest in automotive topics, never had, and based on the apparel of the men surrounding me, I could only guess that they had no interest either.  I think they were like me, and they just wanted to stand near one of the most stunning women I have seen in some time.  I wanted to stand near her, so I could say I stood near someone that beautiful for two minutes, and I can only guess that they thought it was worth it too.

This London Fog feller comes along and thinks he’s not only going to talk to her, but he’s going to hit on her.  Now I’m not the best judge of looks when it comes to guys, but this fella appeared to be one of us.  He was no better looking than any of the five fellas he stepped between to ask this woman if her man treated her right.  The guy had hutzpah.

“Does your man tell you how beautiful you are on a daily basis?” the man in the faux London Fog furthered. The man knew she heard him, he had to know she would be shocked by his question, so he knew the best step would be to further the inquiry.  Repeating it may have made him appear unsure of himself, and he knew he couldn’t afford to lose stature in the fleeting moments he had.

Who is this guy I asked myself, and I wasn’t asking it in the manner that hipsters ask such a question.  I really wanted to know who he was, and what led him to believe that a middle aged man of moderate looks could talk to such a beauty in the manner he had.  Didn’t he watch American television growing up?  Was he one of those kids whose parents couldn’t afford cable?  Didn’t he know that the beautiful are our royalty?  Didn’t he know that we plebeians of average appearance may be afforded occasional glances at the beautiful, we may even be able to stand next to them for two minutes if we develop our excuses well enough, but to talk to them in this manner?  It was just unseemly?

I had been afforded my glance five minutes earlier, and every fiber in my being told me it was time to fawn, but I didn’t.  I took a different tack.  I decided to let it be known, in my own special way, that she meant nothing to me.  I wanted it known that I thought little more of her kind than I would a painting on a wall.  I would look at her in the manner I would any fine piece of art, but once I had established my appreciation for the fine work that had been done, I wanted to walk on.  I wanted to prove to the world that she was not worthy of anything more than a lengthy pause.

I had my book in hand.  I had what I came for, and I would now stride to the checkout stand of the bookstore and be on my way.

When confronted by the below average appearance of the checker behind the stand, I couldn’t stop thinking that I should over extend my one afforded glance of the gorgeous woman just a little.  I paid for the book that I had selected, and I absently put the bills on the counter before me.

That woman in the magazine aisle was too thin.  She was a Barbie Doll.  Her lips were almost comically curved.  If a painter had painted her, he would’ve been mocked for overdoing it on the lip curvature.  It just wouldn’t be realistic enough for the brush.  Her lips had the curves her body did not however.  The woman was as flat as a board, and if she ever had had anything gestating in her womb, its only chance for escape would’ve been through the Cesarean procedure.  There was no way anything more than two pounds was going to escape those thin hips naturally.

As for the Barbie Doll characterization, I have come to believe that our disgust with Barbie Doll types is a result of a successful implantation of the fat and ugly to level the playing field.  We spit “Barbie Doll” with disgust, and we mock them when they spend all their time in the fashion magazine aisle, but then we find ourselves in the neighboring automotive section just to be near them.

I would later tell my friends that she was in the point-five-percent of beautiful people to be found in the state of Nebraska. A common man’s equivalent to an irregular passage of a celestial body.

There is a disgust that is felt by all parties involved when a man lays his pride aside to give a woman everything she wants.  If she wants 2.5 kids, a house on the outskirts of the city, and tons of money, she gets it.  If a guy says no to any of her condition- and she has an idea of the power she wields– she calls up guy number two, who then locks himself in place and grants her wishes.  We hate that.  We complain about it all the time, until we find ourselves in the automotive section of the magazine rack just to stand near them for two minutes.

My book was in the bag and paid for, and I was on my way out the door, but I couldn’t just leave without one more look.  Call me anything you want, but my eyes were just begging me for two more minutes.  My every impulse said two more minutes, and maybe if I could work up the courage, I would stand next to her.

Dictionary.com defines phenom succinctly: Someone or something that is phenomenal.  She was phenomenal.  I wanted a phenomenal moment.  I wanted a moment I could tell the fellas about.  I wanted to say, “And I stood next to her.”  The London Fog fella stole all of this from me.  He topped me.

She had some incredible nipples.  I noticed them in the brief moment where London Fog’s question hung on the air.  She didn’t need a bra for her tiny, little breasts, but the nipples drove me wild.  They were like little Raisinettes.  She probably should’ve worn a bra to keep us all from craving Raisinettes.  A friend of mine used to touch up photos for one of our local modeling agencies.  She told me that when she did this, twenty years ago, she spent most of her time touching up photos to remove nipples.  From what she had seen of the industry lately, she thought that they touched up photos now to add nipples.  This woman wouldn’t need touching up to enhance her nipples.  She must have come from fine stock.  Either that, or God gave her these nipples, because He figured that her baby would have such a hard time finding the breast that the abundant nipple might make up for it.

“I have a awesome boyfriend,” the woman said in a manner that suggested she had delivered this line more than a hundred times.  “And he treats me like a queen.”

“Can I give you my card,” the man said.

The man accepted her rejection without a flinch.  Who did this guy think he was?  I couldn’t help but grin a little inwardly when I heard the rejection.  Score, I thought in the brief moment that occurred after her answer.  I thought it was a much needed reality check for the man, but the man wasn’t the least bit fazed.  He simply held this card out.  The guy had hutzpah.

“No thank you,” the woman said with polite ease.  She was used to it, and she appeared to think about the ramifications of taking the card before she said no.  She did say no though, and she walked away.

The man looked over at me after she had rejected him and moved from between us to leave.  The man gave the only hint of dejection that I would be afforded: a slight clenching of his jaw.  It was dejection, but it was more the ‘shuckee darns’ type dejection than the up all night –pounding my pillow ‘you’re such an idiot’– dejection I would’ve gone through.

The man had a store bag with a book in it too.  He had presumably taken the same circuitous route I had.  After the clenching of the jaw, he moved on and out of the bookstore.

I followed the man out of the store and into the parking lot.

“Excuse me sir,” I said to the man before he could get to his car.

“Yes?” the man said with a polite smile.

“I hope you don’t get offended by this, but are you retarded?”

“Excuse me?” he asked with another clench of his jaw.

“Do you have a mental deficiency of some sort?”

“Sorry,” he said, “did you know her?”

“No,” I returned, “but you’re messing me up the paradigm all of us fellas believe that we finally grasp.”

“How so?”

“There are rules to this game,” I said without going over the fact that he was a middle aged, balding man that should’ve learned all the same rules I had.  “There’s an order.”

“What order?” the man asked.

I could tell the man knew the order very well, but he chose to call me out on my defined order with his ignorant question.  He sickened me in a manner that would reveal many things about my personality if I voiced them.  We shared a stare that lasted a couple more seconds, and we turned away from one another to our cars.

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