Love

Her hair is long and strait, and dark like expensive coffee. With unblemished white, so white skin and round startling dark eyes her face is a frame from a black and white movie, from a great black and white movie, a masterpiece. It is too perfect an image, a constructed thing, a magic thing. It is like a moment captured from the now and digitally retouched to be placed back in real time frame by frame only when it is perfect. Her nostrils flare as she inhales long, slow, deep breaths.

I am spellbound; I can not blink lest I miss a moment.

Every movement is carefully choreographed, carefully scripted. It must be. Her weight changes from back foot to front foot; her orientation begins to change; she blinks once, slowly; she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, discretely; her back foot lifts, she begins the turn; her head first, her long hair dancing behind and then her body completing the turn. Simple, elegant, an economy of movement, a dancers poise.

I am in love, I love her. I love her. I love her.

She faces me her lips part. I am still enraptured; I stand captivated straining to hear. I glimpse for a moment her pink tongue framed between full round lips washed with a pale brown. Her full attention is centered on me. Her eyes are locked with mine. My palms are damp with sweat, I shiver in anticipation.

Her voice, "Thank you sir; two rows down, the window seat on your right".

I am complete.