jikan myshkin
05-16-2008, 06:50 AM
Familiar Strangers
They had never met before, how could they have. They had never frequented the same places, her being a lady of leisure and he a shy introvert yet across the café walls he knew her. Her eyes the blue that cannot be forgotten, her hair a waterfall of brown, held up tightly to her head in a bun, complete with the mandatory pencil through the centre. The way she moved her arm when lifting her cup and the slight way her eye squinted in protest to some unknown phenomena were all too familiar. As he sat there watching her through the haze of his half drunk drink. The way she rose and paid her cheque with the grace of falling snow seemed like a vision from some night that he may have had before. The way she left the room, graceful, averting every male, and some female, eyes into the wake she was cutting through the air. The way she opened the door and stepped out into the blustery cold, the wind lifting her collar as a shield as if the wind itself wished her to be protected from its own mean grip, the way she walked off into the distance and disappeared around the corner and out of his life seemed all too familiar to he as he sat there watching the angel depart.
They had never met before, how could they have. They had never frequented the same places, her being a lady of leisure and he a shy introvert yet across the café walls she knew him. His eyes the soft brown of a loyal long lost pet, his hair short, unstylish, even crudely cut. The way his beaten shoulders drooped until it appeared he was just a head and shoulder above the table, the way his eyes held fear and shyness in defence to some unknown threat were all too familiar. As she sat there watching him, from the corner of her eye, through the haze of steam rising above her cup. The way he recoiled as she rose like a child in the grip taking his first steps, his eyes boldly, against his will, mirroring her every step with a gentle love that she had never felt before, the way his hair was ruffled as she opened the door and how he pulled his coat tighter as an arrow of cold wing sneaked through the gap where the door had once been still, the way his eyes burned her back as she walked off into the distance and disappeared around the corner and out of his life seemed all too familiar to she as she walked on slowly feeling the saint being left behind.
They had never met before, how could they have. They had never frequented the same places, her being a lady of leisure and he a shy introvert yet across the café walls he knew her. Her eyes the blue that cannot be forgotten, her hair a waterfall of brown, held up tightly to her head in a bun, complete with the mandatory pencil through the centre. The way she moved her arm when lifting her cup and the slight way her eye squinted in protest to some unknown phenomena were all too familiar. As he sat there watching her through the haze of his half drunk drink. The way she rose and paid her cheque with the grace of falling snow seemed like a vision from some night that he may have had before. The way she left the room, graceful, averting every male, and some female, eyes into the wake she was cutting through the air. The way she opened the door and stepped out into the blustery cold, the wind lifting her collar as a shield as if the wind itself wished her to be protected from its own mean grip, the way she walked off into the distance and disappeared around the corner and out of his life seemed all too familiar to he as he sat there watching the angel depart.
They had never met before, how could they have. They had never frequented the same places, her being a lady of leisure and he a shy introvert yet across the café walls she knew him. His eyes the soft brown of a loyal long lost pet, his hair short, unstylish, even crudely cut. The way his beaten shoulders drooped until it appeared he was just a head and shoulder above the table, the way his eyes held fear and shyness in defence to some unknown threat were all too familiar. As she sat there watching him, from the corner of her eye, through the haze of steam rising above her cup. The way he recoiled as she rose like a child in the grip taking his first steps, his eyes boldly, against his will, mirroring her every step with a gentle love that she had never felt before, the way his hair was ruffled as she opened the door and how he pulled his coat tighter as an arrow of cold wing sneaked through the gap where the door had once been still, the way his eyes burned her back as she walked off into the distance and disappeared around the corner and out of his life seemed all too familiar to she as she walked on slowly feeling the saint being left behind.