Helpless
A tall man sauntered casually though the well-appointed hotel dining room towards the patio: it was early morning, the sun low in the sky, too early for breakfast. He mused on how pleasant his holiday had been thus far; trips to see antiquities, hours on the beach, time spent relaxing by the bar or in the hotel pool, and evenings enjoying the entertainment with a drink after dinner. The sunrise was most decidedly a wonderful thing to behold at that time of the morning, as he’d done most days this week.
The peace was broken by a crash from outside, instantaneously followed by a distressed cry; which transmuted quickly from a wordless howl of anguish to a moderately high-pitched shriek of “my glasses”! He heard a female voice repeat this exclamation, followed by, ‘help, help, please someone help me! I’ve lost my glasses!’ This caught his attention: who could it be in such need? There was only one means to find out: thus he went to look. Mercifully, he was gallant enough not to be overly concerned as to what variety or age woman it was that he presumed to be in distress, but he was of the persuasion that found bespectacled women of much interest: thus he was easily moved to offer assistance.
Once outside, he saw a young woman wearing a thin yellow top with straps over her shoulders, which clung determinedly to her tall, slim body and interesting curves, brown high leg shorts and flip-flops, crouching on all fours at one end of the patio, near a patch of well-kept garden. She was frantically feeling around on the warm patio slabs: he reasonably assumed that this was her effort to locate her glasses which she’d evidently recently lost. Nearby a chair lay on its side, silently claiming innocence. He walked over to her whilst calling out, ‘hello? Do you need help?’ She paused her search, half-roused herself from her canine posture and turned her head to gaze at him. From her puzzled squint and expression, he adjudged that she was poor-sighted, notwithstanding that a few moments before she’d been loudly complaining about her lost glasses. It was also obvious to him that she was an attractive young woman; in her mid twenties, lithe and long-legged.
Without apparent reason, she asked, ‘who is it?’ ‘Oh, just someone come to help. Did you lose your glasses?’ She nodded, then asked plaintively, ‘please help me, I can’t see them, I can’t find them. Can you help?’ As he drew near, he reassured her, ‘Yes, yes, I’ll help you. Ah… I think I can see them.’ ‘Where?’ He was at her side by the time he told her, ‘They’re in the garden. I’ll get them.’
He crouched in front of her, then grasped her glasses in one hand. He saw that these splendidly glittery things were manifestly possessed of very considerable potency in the visual correction department: being thick at the edges, enough to correct double figures of myopia, the beautifully sparkling lenses supported by and contained within brazenly fashionable black frames. With only minimal ado related to checking said visual attire for damage or grime, he informed her, ‘here, I have them.’ She sighed with relief. He then instructed her, ‘look at me, please? I’ll put them on, if you wish.’ This suggestion she readily agreed to. Gently he pushed aside her long blonde hair, which fell almost undeviatingly downwards each side of her lovely, oval face, and then with equal care installed them into the correct position on her nose and ears. Her grey-blue eyes lit up and seemed to sparkle with life, moving around with obvious clarity of purpose. Then her marvellous, shrunken but perfectly corrected gaze met his, and her mouth smiled generously in gratitude.
He helped her to her feet, immediately discovering that she was almost as tall as he was. She nodded her recognition of his assistance, then after a faint pause, asked falteringly, ‘do you… do… you have a girlfriend?’ He seemed to silently equivocate, so she persisted, asking expectantly, ‘are you looking for a girlfriend?’ She gave a gently hopeful smile. He made a judgement on what he now saw: a young, attractive woman, gazing attentively at him through fascinatingly strong-lensed glasses. With little further perplexity, he asked breezily, ‘what’s your name? And… what’s your phone number?’ ‘My name’s Cara. And…’ She quickly produced from her bag both pen and paper, and proceeded to scribble down her mobile phone number before concluding, ‘here‘s my phone number.’ And thus proffered it to him with a broad, delightful smile. He readily accepted both of these, then inquired of her, ‘would you like to meet up for breakfast? I’ll just go and get myself ready, is that ok?’ She nodded and smiled in acceptance. He walked confidently away towards the door which led into the dining room proper.
She paused to spare a glance back at the garden, within which she’d so meticulously placed her bait: three small stones half-pushed into the earth would have served to guide her fingers, if it had so transpired that her intent had not come to fruition. She then turned her head to watch him going through the door: she smiled with some amusement, thinking how helpless he was.