She was perfect. Everything about her made his heart sing. He just wished she knew how amazing she was. He couldn’t tell her, it was just for himself. He appreciated her and her beauty the way an art critic appreciates breathtaking paintings, the way an author appreciates the written word between the hardcovers and paperbacks. Every joke she made about herself broke him, but every time she laughed at a joke he made he was rebuilt by her smile. She tried to hide it behind her hand, her giggles escaping through her fingers, her nose scrunching up and her eyes closing out of happiness. It happened in slow motion, every time, it seemed, as he tried to notice everything about her. Her eyes struck him, they were his favorite feature about her physically. When he touched her, she was so soft, just like her personality. There was nothing rugged or rough about her and she didn’t even have to try. He was pained, looking at her, because he couldn’t have her. Was she even real? She seemed too perfect to be real. She was always smiling, always happy, even when she was at her worst, giving him her worst. He liked to brush her hair out of her face, her soft wavy hair was always hiding her from the world and he hated that. He wanted everyone to see her, to see all the love, possibilities and encouragement that radiated off of her. The whole world had to see her, had to get high off her just like he did.
He wished he could show her, tell her, how he felt, how she intoxicates him, helps him get through the day. As soon as he tries, its like he can’t speak; he’s not good with words. Photography and videography are the only ways he knows how to express himself. He desperately wants to show her how beautiful, how humble, how real she is but she’d never be on camera. The thought was terrifying. It was literally his job to create and show people’s true colors on camera for everyone to see but he doubted he could ever do her justice. She was so nonchalant, so loyal to things she believed in. He never had to look for her when she came in the room because her perfume floated around the room, engraving itself in the brains of everyone near.
Smoke blew out of his mouth, a cloud of his frustration and mental block. Every exhale of cigarette smoke was his stress leaving his body. She inspired him, she filled him with creativity and visions but he could never touch. When he actually could, a rarity, a treat, she jumped and ran, saying it wasn’t right, to which he always responded,
“Why not?” but she was always too gone to hear.
He’s admitted constantly, repeatedly, that it won’t work, that she should go away, they can’t be friends. Even others have told him to leave her alone, to forget about her, to find what he needs elsewhere. She finds it in music, in books, in photographs, in everything, but he finds it in her. She’s everywhere, even in his dreams. Every Wednesday he dresses up and tries to impress her, dressing for success, but she does not care. She ridicules and questions and he takes it to heart because he knows she means everything she says. He sees her everyday but they never talk. Sometimes there’s two of her, but he likes her because she’s older and her glasses make her more appealing, wiser. Although she’s tried changing him, giving him her favorite book, inviting him to weekly events, but she is still out of grasp.
He keeps her close, scared someone might ruin his chances if she ever opened up to them. He knows other people would love to have her, but she never lets anyone close, not even him. She doesn’t see it, doesn’t see how great she is, but that’s okay because he does. He sees her potential, what she could be. He never wants her to go, she makes everything better. Trying to bring her out in his work is the hardest part. She never shows up on time, only late at night when it’s too late to do anything about it, keeping him up at night, disappearing in the morning, not to be seen again until the next night.
Lighting another cigarette, he leans back in his car, blowing smoke out the sun roof, watching the stars and smoke mingle, dancing, until the smoke fades. And suddenly she’s there, hating him with a strength he didn’t know she had. He tried to capture her, to photograph her, his cigarette hanging between his lips, held in place by his teeth, smoke clogging his nose, floating out the window on the roof. He tried to film her, but she covers the lenses and then she’s gone, like a magic trick, and he forgot what he was doing. He went back to looking out the sunroof, doing everything he could to bring her back.
He sees her everywhere, even in places she’s not. He tries to recreate her but it’s impossible, it seems; she was a one and only. He closed his eyes, thinking about how to bring her to life. She was his inspiration and he just wanted her to live. She was his idea, his life, and needed to keep her alive.
