A Taste of Beauty

February passed bitterly.

I was left alone for long hours. When the night came, it brought with it a loneliness that only the most alienated from society could understand. A deep pain settled in my chest for a brief moment, before an erratic anxiety engulfed me. I sat and sat, paralysed by grief. My limbs grew colder and my thoughts grew darker with every passing hour. I could feel myself growing older.

I was little more than a moaning, debilitated mess of a person when the angel Nancy Earkheart found me.

In these past few months I have grown to know her. Her intricate mind, her delicate mannerisms and bold aspirations intrigue me. She has a light within her so bright; she sets my bones on fire with her pure passion for life. She is a much stronger person then I could ever be. If she ever had any judgments towards me that night, she was careful not to express them.

I watch her now, quietly. She is oblivious to where my mind has drifted, as she loses herself in a philosophic and contemplative topic that’s so well-crafted it must have been churning round her head for a great length of time. She is unknowingly beautiful. Her eyes smile like deep sapphires under admiration, yet her mouth never falters to maintain an elegant curve. The exiguous sprinkle of tiny, bronze freckles across her nose accentuate her uniqueness; the most perfect of imperfections. Soft, dark-brunette curls fall around her cheekbones, bouncing gently as her animate actions tell their own version of the story her speech describes.

I tune in more carefully to every note of her charming diegesis and nurtured vocabulary as I absent-mindedly survey the open, well-lit space; a glass conservatory. It is located at the end of a very extravagant and plush garden. It is a garden fit for someone of Nobel birth. Hidden by exotic plants and vibrant shrubbery, it is our own space; our safe place. She brings me here regularly; I like to think she likes my company. My only wish is to make her happy, to listen to her and learn from her and what she knows of life. She has a wise soul for one so young. I have never met anyone who speaks of things as she does, with wisdom beyond her years.

The gentle spring sunlight transcends through the blue-tinted windows; the warmth it brings is soothing. There is one bare, open window, allowing a sweet-scented breeze to drift right in. A small beam of refracted light encircles her face. She has never looked more angelic then she does in this moment.

She catches my thoughtful gaze. Her eyes widen in innocent surprise, I unexpectedly feel vulnerable to her curiosity. I fidget. She has forgotten about her previous speculations about things greater than our own ordinary experiences. Her focus is directed at me completely. Suddenly I have a burning purpose to be anywhere but opposite her on this white-cushioned couch. I awkwardly stand, careful not to bump our half-full glasses of water, still cold, on the ornate French-wood coffee table. Her eyes follow me intently. I offer a weak smile before offering an even weaker excuse to leave.