He watched, quietly, from his seat facing the entrance of the coffee shop. He had decided he would be waiting for her here, whoever “she” was. He hadn’t decided yet. The moment would draw them in, something about the brief passing of their bodies, the way the wind caught her hair when she opened the door, anything. This was holistic fishing for kismet, a science best not paid too close of attention to, for fear that it might simply disappear under scrutiny. So many beautiful things do.
He was a breath from letting his mind launch into his next personal narrative when it happened, and it happened with all the grace and solidity of Golden Gate bridge, arches that fell to firm lines, the brows over her eyes meeting so subtly at the bridge of her nose, and without any fuss sliding down to the softest little nip, a small curve at the end of a wonderful downward fall, tipping him over onto her lips, wet and pert, ready to catch him and give him pause in the adventure that was becoming her face. He relaxed there another moment, enjoying the fullness of them, and how though they were so full at the center, like her brow to her nose, they resolved in small, thin lines at the edges. It was as though she had squeezed them at the sides her whole life to get them just so, just so for him.
Then he was falling again, shaken lose into her parting lips becoming a smile, onto teeth that weren’t perfect, but were small and white, adorably flawed, the front two straight as towers but the two on either side laying lazily against each other. He marveled at its uniqueness. No dental surgeon could ever recreate such a miracle.
He caught himself on her lower lip, fuller than the first, and paused only a moment to once more indulge in its wetness. Her chin ended in a soft point, much like her nose, with an angular quality that spoke of a demure nature her eyes defied. What eyes! What wild, hungry eyes, searching. Everything about her was packaged so well, from her prim, fashionable small hat atop short, thick black hair, to her makeup, ending in small lines extending out from the edges of those eyes, accenting the angles, enhancing them!
So she knows! She must, she’s using them, using them to get to others, to get to him. Too late! Understanding dawned as the bars slammed home: the journey had been a trap, and he was already hers. Of course he was, she knew it before she ever walked in. She’d been walking there looking for him, after all. Not knowing who “he” was, just that he would stand out in some small way, in the jacket he was wearing, or the way he talked while he was reading, or that look in his eyes. Like nothing else mattered in that moment but her.
A Lovely February!
1 year ago