Disconnected, observant

Deep down, he knew what would occur. He knew that, once he got to the mall, he would essentially have nothing to do there, no purpose. All day, the only thing that he could think about, throughout the meetings, while having a walk and talk with his boss, churning out emails and pretty much getting shit done, everything he did was tarnished by the desire to be at that mall.

Everywhere you looked, once you got there, while either sitting at the food court in the middle, or roaming the open expanses, there were beautiful women. They walked the broad central thoroughfare, passing boutiques large and small, chain and startup, millions of colors, fabrics assaulting their senses, fulfilling the most pure ideals of consumerism, alive with passionate discourse, explaining excitedly to a girlfriend what outfit they had picked out, quiet, internal evaluations, lips barely moving, as gross calculations were made based on a constellation of variables.
Current cash-flow, available increases to current cash-flow, possible occasions that would justify the purchase, matching shoes, necessary accessories to bring out, or subdue, this or that feature, known blemishes and the purchases’ ability to conceal and or alleviate the need to conceal, and on and on.
In a split second, at least no more than one or two, the brain calculates these and many more. Sometimes the rational voice wins, overcoming the desire to live out the envisioned future enjoyment of the purchase. Other times, the rational voice is quiet, or not loud enough to tamp out the desire to simply feel beautiful, to know that outfit was yours, and no one else’s.

Deep down, he thought he knew these things to be true. He watched them, as they browsed, comparing and tracking prices, perhaps walking, true of purpose, to a previously visited store, to doublecheck the price of a certain item, perhaps even buy it there. Perhaps that was the reason he came to the mall, to watch these beautiful creatures passionately hunting for just the right item, gathering together the means to their individual ends.
Perhaps, however, he was merely projecting his notions of a woman’s desires and habits from his knowledge of previous wives, his mother, onto women as a whole. Perhaps the woman sitting down, two tables to his right, resting, it seemed, from a busy day, was thinking about what to buy next. But she could have been thinking of her dog, a project at work, children, maybe if the chunk of earth two hundred miles long, just barely hanging onto the Kamchatka peninsula, would indeed shortly slide off into the ocean, kicking up a tsunami that would drown her and all others, laying waste to her fine city.

Why are these thoughts in my head, he thought to himself, sitting with the setting sun at his back. He wondered if the people around him were thinking things about him, discussing his choice of clothing, or what kind of hair shampoo he used.
Looking around, he realized that no one was looking at him, at all, that all people seemed focused on going somewhere, being or doing something else. Not a single person said anything to another, unless they had come together or were trying to sell the other person something.
Slowly, it dawned why he yearned for the mall, why his waking hours were filled with an unspecified desire to be there, to sit, unmolested, for hours. He desired to be among people, without having to answer emails, field calls, document procedures.
Nothing gave him greater pleasure that being surrounded by people, but speaking to no one, and knowing that none would speak to him, unless he got a job there and was forced to.
Inspired, in part, by Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment, Everyman’s Library