That Hat

Had I been made to guess, I would’ve put her at smiling then. I get that feeling whenever she looks my way — that feeling you get when you know someone’s happy. I can never tell for sure, but I do try, and I like to think I’ve become pretty good at deciphering her mannerisms.

It’s not that she doesn’t want me to see her face, although I can’t be sure. She just loves that hat. It’s brown and wide-brimmed, and she always wears it pulled down over her face. When she looks even the slightest bit downward, I can’t make out those lips. I’d like it so very much if I could, but she won’t have that.

I try to figure out what she’s thinking by looking at the rest of her — her body language, the way she moves. It’s generally favourable, at least in the sense that I think she likes me. Turning toward me, maybe extending a pale, slender hand… whatever it may be that I think can give me some insight. Whatever it is, it’s never her hidden face.

Every so often, I catch a glimpse of her hair. It’s reddish and muted, and it dangles beneath the outer reaches of her hat’s brim. I’ve never touched it, but I imagine it would be quite soft. I’ve come to notice that she’s more likely to be looking at me when her hat’s aligned in a certain way. I like it, but I’d also like to see the face it frames.

There’s a feather in her hat that sticks upward like a centurion’s plume. It waves in the light breeze. I’ve always liked it, and I assume she does as well. It adds character to the mottled expanse it impales, diverting my attention from the fine suede. I once touched it, but she recoiled at my forthrightness so I haven’t attempted to do so again.

She sighs; that’s the only sound she ever makes. I wonder why she’s sighing, but I find myself afraid to ask. I don’t know what she’d say, or if she’d say anything at all, so I stay silent. She never fails to look at me, though — or at least I think she doesn’t. She expresses herself as well as one can without the use of speech or sight.

Considering the texture of the hat again, I imagine how it — how she — must feel. I imagine that I’d enjoy the sensation of whatever softness I’m encountering beneath my gentle hands. Sometimes it’s as though I can feel her right then, but then I remember I’m creating a memory, so I stop.

Looking back over at her, I can tell she’s looking at me. I can tell she wants something, but she won’t say what. I won’t say anything to her, of course. That’s her fault, though. I might have something to say if she weren’t so enveloped in mystery.

We could be more direct with each other if she’d ever, please, take off that hat.

Matthew Gordon’s short fiction has appeared in Amazing Stories, in High Shelf Press, in The Quilliad, in Witcraft, and in The Artisanal Writer. His non-fiction has appeared in The Huffington Post, The Sporting News, The Billfold and on RealGM.com. He has lived in Ontario, New York, Texas and Alberta. He now lives in his hometown of Toronto, Ontario.