Her hair was a miracle, a wonder, a symphony of wild and beautiful. You could get lost in hair like that.
Let it wrap you in golden strands the color of wheat just before harvest like a blanket and a fire on a cold winter night. Her hair was a mystery, an enigma, a talisman.
Her hair beckoned you to magical forests, castles, charmed cottages.
I was in love with her immediately. Entranced. Intrigued. Infatuated. I knew deep down it would not end well, but I hung around waiting for her to either find a table or leave. I intended to follow her out the door if need be. Determined to talk to her.
We were in the coffee shop. She standing in line like a mere mortal. That hair haloing her face and cascading down her back. She ordered plain coffee, black. Ah. A no-nonsense woman for all the spellbinding of her hair. Yet it seemed fitting for her to do so. Nothing was ever going to compete with her hair, so best to keep it simple.
Wonder of wonders! She sat at the table next to me. I am a mere mortal. I managed a strangled “Good morning.”
She responded with “Yes, yes it is.” Her voice honey and soft, melodious. Befitting of her hair. I noticed her eyes were green. The green of a jade dragon in a museum. Her skin sun-ripened peaches and farm fresh cream.
Besotted. I knew. My brain knew, but my heart took off on its own. A journey, a quest, a mission.
It would not end well. I knew. She was ethereal, enigmatic, eternal. I was flesh and blood that would die someday. Memento Mori. She would live forever. Tempest Fugate.
Her hair. Her eyes. Her skin.
She was graceful like a weeping willow, calm like a pond at midsummer, radiating the peace of a thousand doves.
Love is too mild of a word. Too common. Over-used. What I was feeling was all-encompassing, vibrant, vivacious.
I was lost in the forest of her hair, her eyes, her skin. It would not end well. I knew.
I heard myself say to her, “May I join you?”
“Yes,” she said. Her voice velvet.
I carried my coffee and my backpack to her table. I chattered inanely. She listened intently. Nodding her head as if I were a sage, a prophet, a magician.
Was it possible? But I knew. I did.
She took a sip of her coffee, looked me in the eyes, and said “I would like to go on a picnic with you, I think.”
My soul burst like a ripe dandelion in a wind gust. Besotted. My heart beating quickly for her. For her. For her.
“Yes,” I managed to blurt out. “Yes, a picnic. That would be lovely. You are lovely. Just lovely.”
I knew it wouldn’t end well. But so we began.
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