Try Not to Look So Pretty by Dwight Yoakum
Try not to look so pretty
The next time that we meet
Please don't look so pretty
And I won't act so weak.
Please don't look so pretty
You're lovely but its just cruel
Try not to look so pretty
And I'll try not to be your fool.
You walk in and steal my mind
But who gave you the right
To treat me like some useless thought
You threw away each night.
Please don't look so pretty
You're lovely but its just cruel
Try not to look so pretty
And I'll try not to be your fool.
You make it hard on me
But I'll try to pretend
That you're just a lovesick dream
That always has to end.
Please don't look so pretty
You're lovely but its just cruel
Try not to look so pretty
And I'll try not to be your fool.
The doors to the small bar swing open like a scene from an old western. He swaggers in with an easy grace that suggests he is more comfortable with himself than someone so young should be. He pauses for a moment to gaze around the room as though listening to some unheard voice through the intense blues riffs that weave around the handful of people sitting at the tables. He moves over to the long oak bar on the north wall. After ordering a draft, he turns in his chair to survey the crowd.
You step out of the shadowed corner and cross the room to the bar. His eyes track you, a faint smile passing over his lips. When you reach the seat next to him, you take it and motion to the bartender. When he comes over to you, you order a red wine. He pours you a glass of Merlot from a decanter under the bar. You lightly nod at each other, enough that someone watching could see the familiar gesture of old friends. You ask the grey-haired man a question, but his answer seems to displease you.
You drop your head and pout slightly. He says something to make you look up and give a smile that seems to light up the dark bar as though it was daytime. His face is glowing in your radiance.
So is Richie's. He seems attuned to every gesture you make, every lilt in your voice. Funny, when you speak to me, your voice seems to have no lilt. Maybe the organ Richie and Joe have that I lack helps their hearing.
I stand, smooth out my new dress, and walk toward Richie. He shouldn't mind the interruption: I am the one he's here to meet. Still, I have a feeling when he sees me, he'll be disappointed. Like looking at the flame of a candle after bathing in the warmth of a hearthfire.
When he sees me, Richie smiles. He stands up and offers me his stool. I blush without thinking, and take the offered seat. He moves between me and you, and asks Joe to get me something to drink. I gesture to the glass of Merlot you cradle in your hands, and Joe comments on the vintage. I smile, knowing he's teasing me by suggesting the wine is three times my age. Joe has a nice place, but it doesn't have the atmosphere for a 60 year old Merlot.
Richie says, "I hope you don't mind, but Duncan can't meet Amanda tonight. He's... busy at the university. Do you mind if she joins us?"
Mind? Why should I mind? We were only on a date. Beautiful women often join twosomes on a date. "No, that's fine." I turn to you, "You're welcome to join us, Amanda."
You thank me and smile mysteriously, a look I know you've perfected. Very Mata Hari. I see Richie breathe in at the gesture, and even Joe looks a little struck by the turn of your porcelain features.
As the conversation continues, I notice more and more that my contributions are given less interest than yours. When you ask a question, these two tough guys answer as though you were a queen at court, and their very heads depend on your approval. When you say something clever, they laugh and fawn over you like a pair of devoted spaniels. Suddenly, I'm not even in the room with this threesome.
I notice that Richie is not facing me anymore. He's staring intently at Queen Amanda telling a story of your days as a circus performer. He has this look on his face like it's the most important thing he's ever heard. Joe seems to have heard this story before, and he offers to get you another bottle of Merlot. He turns toward the wine rack, and busies himself opening a bottle.
No. If I have to take much more of this, I'll scream. I'll punch. I'll wring your exquisite neck.
I take my purse off the bar, and slide off the stool. I turn and walk all the way to the door before I glance back to see if Richie has noticed that I am gone. He's still wrapped up in your smile and laugh.
I open the door and step out into the night air. I walk down the alley to a fork. I could walk out into the street to take a cab, but I turn instead to walk down the other alleyway. I have to think, and the last thing I need is to lose it walking down a busy street on a Friday night. And I am definitely going to lose it.
How can he fall for such obvious come-ons? How can he not see that he's just a plaything to you. He's a distraction that you use to bide your time until the main attraction shows up. Play with the little, young, handsome one until Mr. Tall, Dark & Handsome appears.
I turn to the nearest brick wall and start flailing with my arms and my legs.
I imagine that it's Duncan. Maybe I can hit him until he's sorry for being your real desire. If he's sorry maybe he'll pay more attention to you and keep you closer to him.
I imagine the wall is Richie. If I hit him, maybe it'll knock some sense into him. Maybe he'll see you don't care about him any more than you care about your shoes.
I picture you. Maybe if I hit you hard enough it will leave marks. It will mark your beautiful face, and break your hold on him. Can I find a way, any way to stop this magic spell you have on him? If I bruise you, will that do it? If I suggest you don't wear makeup, or you stop bathing, or you shave your head, maybe then your perfection will be marred.
I lean against the wall, and slump to the floor. I cry out, "If I ask nicely, will you try not to be so irresistible around him! Please don't be so pretty. You're lovely but it's just cruel. You don't know the hold you have on him. I vanish when you're around." If I beg you, will that make you see that I exist in his world? Will you let him see?
I scream incoherently. It doesn't matter. It'll never happen. You'll go on breaking women's hearts and stringing men along, and nothing will change.
I hear the sound of heels clicking on the asphalt. I wipe the tears from my face and stand up quickly, trying to look as normal as possible. Why didn't I didn't hear the footsteps sooner! I curse myself. Nice, look like a bloody fool to some clubhoppers who wandered down the wrong alley. Maybe if I turn myself toward the wall, they'll think I'm another partier who had a little too much fun.
The footsteps stop beside me. Damn! I try to think of a way to tell them to leave me alone. I can't face anyone now, not even strangers. But better strangers than you or Richie. I look up, ready to tell them I'm fine.
Your lovely dark eyes search my face. Sigh. Of course. Who else would it be. From the look in your eyes, it's obvious you heard me shouting.
It looks like I get to have it out with you after all.
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