Enough of yer owl staring

Moderately hungover and definitively dosed, I stood limply over a shiny silver buffet tray trying to decide whether eight bits of bacon was too much for breakfast or not.

“Ahh, why not, Emmet?”, I said to myself. “You’re on your holidays, plus you’re not well.

“The two perfect excuses, really… I bet this is the sort of stuff people tell themselves when they are giving heroin a go for the first time… but frig it.”

Releasing the pressure from the pinchers, I allowed another piece of crispy pig to fall upon my plate.

“Deadly. Right, what’s next?”

But just as I looked up from the greasy grub below to go in search of the next culinary casualty, I felt somebody’s eyes upon me.

Sure enough, I was right.

Sitting across the palatial ‘breakfast room’ (this hotel was so fancy that they had a pianist playing at eight o’clock in the morning!) I found a fella about my age sitting staring at me; his head titled slightly back, the space between his chin and neck creating that angle of perfect arrogance.

Assuming that it was one of those unlikely, but not uncommon, eye-catching coincidences that happen when two people accidentally share a simultaneous glance, I immediately dropped my head, and redirected my attention towards a platter of steaming hot corn-on-the-cobs.

“That is absolutely mad”, I smiled, shaking my head in disbelief at the yellow-beaded hunks before me.

“Who would eat a corn-in-the-cob for breakfast?”

Nobody. Or maybe a lunatic would. Yeah, a lunatic definitely would. That’s probably why management put them here: “Not only is there a guy playing piano at breakfast, but our buffet selection is so good that it even caters for the clinically insane’.”

But, just then, as I raised my head to look for a less mental option to add to my plate, I caught the eyeballer’s eyeballs again.

This time, I held his gaze for a second or two before relaxing my neck muscles, and allowing my face to fall again towards the food below.

However, by this stage, I was no longer interested in the diversity of the delicacies on offer.

“What is this tube staring at?”, I growled to myself, the question mark as rhetorical as the one that comes at the end of, ‘Are ye gonna hit me, are ye?!’”

I decided that I would not be cowed down by this stranger, and instead would defend my pride.

“Right. If it is a staring contest ye want, it was a staring contest ye’ll get.”

I planted by hands on the marble counter in front of me, drew a few breaths, and prepared myself to meet his eyes again.

When I lifted my head and found my target, as expected, his focus was fixed on me.

Now, I do not know if you’ve ever had a stare-off with a stranger, but to voluntarily enter eye-lock with someone whose intentions you do not understand is an intense experience.

Staring is a primal act of aggression, and you find that out fast when you’re trying to outstare a stranger across a breakfast buffet. We were about three seconds in, and I could feel my blood already reaching boiling point. Sweat secreted from every pore, and adrenaline coursed through my veins.

“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!”, my eyes screamed.

But still he just sat there, motionless, his face showing no signs of unease, awkwardness or anger.

Meanwhile, my blood turned to steam.

“LOOK AWAY NOW?!”, I optically exhorted.

Another second passed, and I turned the eye roar up to 11 in one last ditch effort to break him, but all I got was the same cold stare.

Like a dog in submission, I bowed my head and deferred to his dominance.

“Right, now I know who the corn-on-the-cobs are for,” I whispered under my breath.