Pretty Pretty

A couple of days ago, the new batch of trainees arrived. There were, I think, about thirty of them. One of them was this girl I can only think perfectly fits your definition of “pretty pretty”. She was, from what I hear, a graduate of one of the most expensive printing academies in existence, a car-owner, and was reported to have asked, regarding our work, during her pre-employment process, “Is this what you do all day? Don’t you ever get bored?”

I didn’t get the chance to ogle at this young woman’s beauty until her second day at the office. She, indeed, is a pretty pretty! With her hair cut fashionably short, she had the right breast size, and curvy hips that make her the perfect ornament for any aspiring boyfriend who would want to display her around. If, however, the guy turns out to be less of a show-offy type, this woman is attractive enough to inspire sexual interest, and that can be enough for any male to want her as a girlfriend.

I was pondering over how it wouldn’t be too bad at all if she would one day approach and offer herself to me, when suddenly, I, for no reason at all, happened to glance upon and beyond my left shoulder. In that direction worked some fifty to ninety women of the Printing Process. Whereas before, I thought only low, filthy, deprived men like myself would even be remotely interested in this new Beauty that was walking, breathing, and, yes, even ovulating, in our very office space, it immensely shocked me when I saw that the women were also interested. I distinctly remember watching about fifteen of them climb up their work tables to have a better look.

It was then that I realized the real impact of the introduction of a pretty pretty in our work environment. Prior to this, though it wasn’t really a guarantee, it wasn’t either in vain to hope that every straight single male at work would eventually pair up, or even marry, with every straight single female. It gave people diversion from the monotony of work, enabling them, even, to relatively enjoy it, and, more importantly, gave them a reason to look forward to tomorrow.

This pretty pretty changed all that. For one, she proved to us that the whispered rumors were true: fair-looking people truly existed outside the hubs of the Printing Process.

This disturbed the balance of the Printing Process, and if it ever one day halts—something that would just be terrible for a lot of people—I would look to the day I set eyes on this pretty pretty for the first time as the turning point of the smooth operation of the Printing Process.

The men now—myself, I feel so low and base to admit, included—wanted her. That early on I felt the wave of treachery as one boss, one co-worker, one friend, plotted to eliminate a subordinate, another co-worker, another friend, just to have a better chance of being the only male in this pretty pretty’s attention. That early on I smelled the stink of blood and rotting corpses piled about the floor, in this competition of males, the winner of which would perhaps receive as a reward, the most beautiful female that had ever appeared in this printing joint so far.

I looked at the women again. In their facial expressions I saw that they were already thinking what I was thinking. At the end of this there would be left only one man standing: the Winner. And when he decided which among the multitude of women left to have for himself, it was certain that he would choose the pretty pretty trainee and ignore all the other girls completely, leaving them to the termination of their reproductive deadlines, and even to their lonely deaths.

It was not all that hard, therefore, to understand the general hatred the workplace radiated towards the pretty pretty’s direction. It was a stifling, heavy, dense sort of hatred. It went as far as causing a slight choke in the office’s otherwise properly functioning ventilation system.

I immediately felt sorry for her. Right at that moment I wanted to be by her side and bear the production area’s general feeling of hostility towards her. I wanted to take her up and wrap her in my arms, her soft skin pressing against mine, her sweet scent permeating the atmosphere within a 1.5-meter diameter sphere from her Center, her yummy self in close tasting distance!

I wanted to stroke, among her other body parts, her lovely short hair. I imagined her crying in my poorly-exercised shoulder, her sweet tears drenching my T-Th-S uniform. I could feel the shiver of her back and chest as her body secreted tears, among other bodily fluids I could only imagine her female body was secreting at that moment of emotional outburst.

And I would tell her everything was going to be all right, I was by her side now. There would be no harm, no harm, my love. Just us. Other people don’t even exist. And what’s more important is, their opinions don’t matter. We shouldn’t trouble ourselves with what they think. Oh how pretty you are when you cry. In fact, you’re so pretty pretty when you cry. It’s just that… you don’t have to spill saliva all over my coat. Please. It’s only Tuesday. Look at me. Everything will be all right. I’ll even bet the 20-peso emergency money I’ve been keeping since college on that. Trust me. Now that we’re together you’re going to have to start trusting me. Oh, pretty pretty new trainee whose name I don’t even know, would I be this crazy over you if you turned out really, really ugly?

I doubt it. I’m so shallow.

Come back when I’m sane and reasonable. Come back when I’ve got enough sense not to adore or decide to ignore people solely on the basis of their appearance. When I can’t tell apart pretty from ugly, that’s when we’ll start talking serious, maybe even about starting a relationship, and adopting grandchildren, and stuff…

© Jay Santos 2003.