His White Rose
As Milo stood in front of the grey steps of her London townhouse, the thick curved lip of each step leading to the tall black door framed by two pillars, was a feature he always admired. It was a welcoming façade, despite it being somewhat unremarkable on that particular affluent street. Maybe it was because of who was behind the door of this particular property. He recalled for a moment how she would sometimes present herself as she opened the door, as though she was being revealed to the world as the stage curtain was withdrawn. But there was no crowd, it was just you, it was just for you. She had a smile and confidence that made you feel both welcomed and inspired. A quality every T.V host aspires to embody. After pressing the bell to her flat, Milo was tempted to take several steps back down the stairs to take his seat in the stalls as it were, to admire her entrance properly. All it took was a moment of hesitation for him to convince himself it was a silly thought, after all, they were just friends. Right on cue she opened the door and took the stage. Klara was what your stereotypical 90’s ‘wanker banker’ might stereotypically call ‘exotic’. However, in the purest sense of the word that’s exactly what she was. She was quintessentially English, her speech was as refined as her demeanor, you knew she was educated without her ever having to tell you. She was a part of the world that surrounded her, she knew the value of being ‘of good stock’ not just because you were born into it but because it was who you were, the values and responsibilities that came with that tradition, beyond airs and graces and any false sense of superiority. And yet, there was no mistaking the golden tanned skin, the dark brown eyes that curved as though drawn with a calligrapher’s brush, and straight dark brown hair that cupped her refined cheekbones and sat across her shoulder like an Indian headscarf. Her connection to another culture, to more than one, in fact, was clear to see. Which ones could easily be the final question of any pub quiz, it was hard to tell for even the most cultured eye, but her connection to that something other radiated from her with an unspoken presence. Like a sapphire found in the chambers of the Royal Palace, it at no point seems out of place and yet you know this gem was not discovered beneath any Stone Henge. That day in particular Karla was noticeably different, she seemed especially alive.
