Vespertine

It was the evening and it was euphoric to lay my sorry eyes upon her. I consumed her glorious presence from across the street. She was waiting at the light, about to cross the street. The opposite of my direction, and I just couldn't possibly allow that to happen. I stood back against the wall of a cacophonous restaurant filled with excited eccentrics. I hid in the shadows and watched her like I was alone in the movie theater. And then the light turned red and the movie began.

Her legs are absolutely their own being, they are the concentrated subject of her entire body. The pair of her elongated limbs transport the rest above her body, which is like a perfectly crafted clay figure, sculpted by none other than God Himself. Her feet are a careful juxtaposition hidden in moderately fashioned shoes. Her body floats across the concrete like a illuminating orb, painting this sumptuous picture before my very eyes. I watch in raging glee as her panoply of breasts jiggle in opulent grace. Her presence was astounding and unbelievable, and it stung me like a bee.

Who is this woman?

Her legs appear toppling the curb and she stands straight with a long neck and long dark hair that falls in black ripples around her glass face. She reveals a red lighter and a single cigarette from her jacket  pocket and lights it right there. She is five feet away from me, and she doesn't even notice me, lighting her crippled cigarette. 

Oh, if I could trade places with that cigarette, if I could have this sweet, wonderful woman set me on fire with her tobacco kiss. I close my eyes as her smoke sails into my scent, and I breathe it in and savor it. I open my eyes and she goes and stands next to the restaurant window and looks in at the excited eccentrics an smokes before them. I pity the oblivious entourage of hungry imbeciles, for they cannot even see this miracle of beauty standing right outside the window.

She turns and looks at me with insouciance, smoke appearing in gusts from her hand. She smiles, an ineffable form of interaction, but nonetheless quite sufficient for my standards, as being a poor, filthy Irish boy lost in the big city. I toss an attempt at a hello and she smile and turns away, sucking sweet life into her cigarette, revealing to me a gorgeous callipygous behind. 

At the curb she stands with a lithe composition , and a few insignificant persons pass her by nonchalantly and let her brood and smoke, forgetting her instantly as she disappears out of their vision. I watched all of this in the same dumbfounded position that I had sustained for the last two minutes, and at last I feel an urge to confront her. It grows like a fire, not in my head, but in my core, I can feel the urge to further interact with her, I want to talk to her, I need to hear her sweet voice whisper me the secret contents of the mind behind the impeccable skull and the chatoyant eyes.

I walk up and stand behind her. She turns away from me as I am about to open my mouth and treads down the sidewalk. She tosses her cigarette upon the concrete and it lands in a perfect penumbra.  I reluctantly let the proximity grow between us, and I quickly look around me to see that nobody is around, and I pick up her cigarette and cradle it in my palms, like the jewel that it is. The ash stains my fingers, and I consider it an excellent pastiche on my palms. The cigarette has the opulent crimson of her lipstick puckered upon the butt, and I place it in my lips and suck at whatever spark is left inside. 

I can feel her fade away, and her presence disappears like when you know a television turns off.

I start in a mad dash down the sidewalk, I can see myself in the third person of the passing cars, seeing myself gallop like a mentally handicapped individual, and then I picture a police cruiser spotting me, insinuating me to be a potential thief, and desist the anxious amble on the sidewalk. I stand in front of a warmly glowing coffee shop, and I see her standing inside. She is buying a coffee, I can see her adroit fingers extend out and wrap the cup that is being handed to her from an insignificant, and do I see  the beloved insignia of a sharpie pen, inscribing the very name of this animate immortal?

She turns toward the door and I nearly trip trying to hide myself from her vision,  and I turn away and look up at the purple, vespertine sky. I hear the door open and close, the ring of the bell, and the orchestra of her footsteps. The music is cut short, and I hear a chair scream against the cold concrete. Assuming she is seated, my heart drops when I realize that I have a sure chance of confronting her and talking to her. I look quickly and cautiously at the wrought-iron table and the pair of chairs and find a vacant lounge seated directly across from the Goddess's throne. I envision myself sitting before her, serenading her with my masculine charm. In my head I can hear the sweet chords of her voice, being strummed only for me. I can taste her mellifluous laughter fly off her tongue in response to my witty humor.

I have to confront her.

Suddenly I become aware that she is aware of me, and I turn and look into her eyes, and we make ecstatic eye contact. She smiles again at me, her red lips bisecting naturally, revealing the warm den of her mouth. Her teeth, like pillows, make me want to curl up inside her mouth and lay upon her tobacco tainted tongue and smoke from a long wooden pipe.

The dream from her eyes puts me in a buzzing daze, and I find myself moving towards the vacant chair, my legs are moving completely on their own without my approval, and I grab the seat and pull it back with an impulsive hand, and I find myself sitting right before her. Her presence, at this intimate proximity, is what I believe standing on the moon would feel like. 

She nods very callously, and her hair dances in the gentle zephyr of a breeze. She doesn't say anything, only sips on her coffee and looks at me with the stars in her eyes. Her hands cradle the coffee cup, and I can only see the beginning of a name: Ves--

I feel my mouth open on its own, as if the voice of my father had possessed me. The quixotic greeting I had heard my father say to many women, “Hello there, gorgeous.”

Again the smile, but nothing else. 

“The night is so lovely tonight, but it is in no way comparable to your allure.”

She casts her eyes down at the table, and drinks from her coffee. There is a prolonged abeyance that follows, and from the both of us there are no words to be traded. 

I have offered my polite address! Was I not courteous, was I not civilized and cultivated? Was I being vexatious to her, intruding or imposing my foreign presence upon her? What had I done wrong?

“Well, you do not have to be ignorant of my pleasant conversation.”

She only looks out at the road and watches the cars drive by. I sigh.

“So you're one of those women, who thinks of themselves of having a reputation higher than a god status, well, I can tell you, babe, that your looks aren't going to be around forever, one of these days you're going to be rotting away, you're going to look like a wrinkled sack of voided innards, your brain is going to mush into apple sauce, and your legs are going to shrivel to the bone. You will be as pathetic as my shoe.” 

I smile in satisfaction at my harsh syllogism. The woman looks at me with serene eyes, perfectly calm and oblivious to my hate-fueled rant. She smiles again. I scowled at her, focusing my eyes on her like a rifle scope. 

I said it again, “Pathetic as my shoe.”

She looked at my lips and blinked in wonder.

I scoot out the chair, and I notice the woman is digging in her coat pocket, and she takes out a bind of index cards and a pen. She scribbles something stupidly with her stupid hand. She clicks the pen and tears out the index card and slides it across the table. I stand up, ready to walk away, assuming that the note simply reads, F**k You. But I don't see any obscenities inked on the card, as F**k is a very noticeable word.

With a smooth grab I pick up the card and read it with a bored expression:

I'm sorry, I'm deaf. 

I respond to her with a burning smile of embarrassment, and I wave a quick goodbye at the flawed beauty and pace away in reverse serendipity. The taste of tobacco dissolves in my mouth and I don't look back. The moon disappears behind a cloud, and I am still alone.

Author's Note

what the heck

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

It may simply be deja vu, but I have seen this before. Is that possible? If not this then its fraternal twin. Good idea anyway. Well executed.

[Woody]

remarkable description!! both of the physique of the lady and the feelings of the "obnoxious" narrator.
I enjoyed the read very much.
however, I felt the ending was a little rushed but maybe that's just me.

[Chadvonswan]

I mucch appreciate your commentary good sir! I have to agree with you as well about the blunt conclusion, but I guess thats just where this story ends haha. Thanks for reading!

[Woody]

you're welcome. I understand that sometimes the writer chooses to stop dead and often leaves the reader to decide for themselves and interpret it the way they "feel" it. again, it's probably me. just a feeling. the story was so good I expected more than just one sentence. am I making sense?

[Crusty Pizza Stain]

Nice story, I guess the creepy guy doesn't like deaf girls...

[Naraly Godinez]

Flawed beauty ... Aren't we all :) so simple lie the steam rising from the cup of hot coffee against a winters still air I could kiss this story I really could