Sunset

On a hill, he first met her...

When she turned up, the sun had just started setting. It painted a breath-taking gold-red that was truly majestic. At the top of the hill, you can see all around. You can see the main road turn off to the left, and a small dirt road that lead to this secluded spot. You could see the old clock tower at the heart of the small town. You could see where it started, and where it ended.

She was leaning on the railing beside me, I didn't know if she recognised me. Or if she even noticed if I was there. But I didn't care. She had me captivated. Her fiery hair fell loosely around her shoulders, stirring slightly from the cool night wind. Her jumper, the one she wore every afternoon when she came up here, clung to her, as she huddled into it for warmth. Her hourglass figure had not gone unnoticed, either. But the most stunning feature was her face. Without having seen her before, I could not begin to describe to you how beautiful she was. It would be like trying to describe what wind looked like, or trying to feel darkness.

So I will leave it with that.

Ever since I moved to this town, I had come up to this hill, charcoal and pad in hand. For weeks I had come up here, just me and my creations on the paper. Then one day, she turned up. Ever since that day, she had come to watch the sun set. She usually stood on the balcony that was built over the stairs on which I sat.

But not that day. Something compelled me to go onto the balcony. I sat there, my legs dangling over the edge, my pad on my lap. I stared at the paper, scribbling on the paper as I was deep in thought. I didn't hear her footsteps, and was startled when she stood next to me. I don't know why, she came to same spot all the time.

As I said before, I was captivated. The only thing that snapped me out of my trance was a look from her, out of the corner of her eye. I had turned quickly, my cheeks blazing. I looked down at the drawing I had scribbled. It was the picture of beauty.

Then she spoke to me. To describe that would also be futile. But I can try this time. It sounded like a symphony of angels, all whispering at the one time.

“That's me,” she had said, nodding towards the picture.

I could do nothing but nod dumbly.

She smiled. I wish I could have bottled that smile.

“Do you mind if I have that? It's such a great picture.”

With slightly shaking hands, I had pulled the leaflet out, and handed it to her.

She smiled again, offering her thanks.

I had replied with a “no problem” look.

“So,” my mother's voice pulled me back into reality. “Did you know her?”

I looked down at obituary column, re-reading it.

“Not as well as I would have liked,” I told her.