untitled I

There he was, leaning on a wall of a closed shop at the corner of the street on a cold December evening, waiting without a hint of waiting in his manner. In that medieval town, two street musicians on the other side of the pavement were playing poignant pieces of classical melodies with their worn out violin and guitar. The mellow vibrations from the hollow wooden instruments were melting into the evening afterglow, just like the snowflakes between the gaps of cobblestones on the street he was standing by, infusing the chill air with a touch of a fairytale dream. A group of friends, laughing, talking in circles, passed by indifferently as if the sole purpose of their passing-by was to complete his portrait. He was wondering solemnly, struggling to remember how she had smiled at him the first time they had met just for a few minutes. He was allowing himself the discomfort of a doubt whether she will even recognize his voice or not. And then, his musings stopped short as his attention was captivated by a distant silhouette figure walking with the most feminine of a grace in his direction. Under the sphere of glow from a yellow streetlamp, a nearby tree coated with a thin layer of sparkling snow was throwing shadows over her path. She was smiling, seeing him for the first time after several months. Her cheeks were reacting to that unusual mixture of feelings within her, of uncertainty, of sweet torture caused by the glance of a man she once met, leaning on the edge of a wall, waiting for her with a strange mysterious smile on his face, reflecting hers.

They were sitting on a cozy sofa in a downtown bar of that old town. The comfort of the dim warm yellow lights overhead and the tickling anxiety caused by the partial knowledge they had about their unspoken submission to each other's presence was igniting a fire of charming resonance. They were relishing the comfort, she had been sporadically sipping her tequila sunrise through the black straw, talking about her past, her childhood, smiling at her own cute silly musings, laughing, sharing her dreams, her anguish, her fears, her hopes and the utopian world within. He spoke little, revealing little pieces within his own radius of existence as if the pieces of his jigsaw puzzle were never to form a final image. This was him, as he always had been, without realizing his own abstruse ways. Hours went by as a flash of a second. For a long time he kept listening without a word, just listening intently, looking deep into the doors of her soul, watching her hairs fall down in curves intermittently on her cheeks and adoring the way she kept sliding them back with swiftness of her fragile fingers, glancing that faint beauty spot on the right half of her chin beneath the soft transparent glow of her skin, noticing the archaic pendant which was hanging down her neckline. The way she felt she could be understood in such a dimension by almost a stranger, the way she could open deepest of her heart to almost a stranger was hitherto unknown to her. Her consciousness was fully aware of the niceties of his gaze. All that she could do was to see the two abysses of their souls overlap, to let his silence guide her into his arcane world, to let her consciousness realize that his was the stare she was dying to be an object of, that such was the gaze her heart was craving all the time for. He slowly placed his hand over the back of her shoulder on the edge of the sofa, slightly touching a strand of her silky hairs. For him that was a sign of purest of his affection towards her aurora and for her that was the greatest reward, a reward for the tenderness and warmth she was unknowingly gifting him through her words and her silence. Right there, in that blow of spell, through the calm certainty on his face and through the adorable coy eyelashes of her, when their eyes collided, they realized: this was all the past, winding down spirally to this one single moment, the path they walked all those years was to converge here in this very moment, this had been the gist of their whole existence. They were trading silence through the eyes, they were trading secretive lines of enchanting pull they felt towards the other soul hiding behind those eyes. They kept staring deep into each other, moments passed without a trace of a single word or smile. Frozen, those seconds in between, it wasn't the time that passed, it was an eternity; for her and for him.

Finally, she felt a slow movement of her lips and heard a soft whisper in her own voice, "I think my face speaks." He remembered himself laughing at them when he heard them say, ' You never know, lightning could strike'. And now there he was; sitting so close to a woman an angel may choose to envy, that she could feel his passionate heartbeats, that he could feel the warmth of her intensifying breath, his fingers mingling with the ring of tiny black rose she was wearing, his hand feeling the lock of her smooth hairs on her shoulder; thunderstruck by the words from someone who granted him the most vulnerable of one's self. It was more of a command intertwined with a hint of surrender, her voice was firm, eyes intensely locked onto his but her thoughts, trembling, just as her wet lips. And he knew it.

He knew this was the most mesmerizing prelude he had ever allowed himself to experience. He knew that she has penetrated and reached to the deepest core of his person and hers too. He knew that she knew it too.
And they found themselves leaned in with closed eyes, feeling the gentle pressure of each other's moist lips..

The rest, as they say, is history.


  1. It has always been delightful to read the stuff you write. And this was not the normal stuff. Keep on spending time on this mate. :-)

    1. "wasn't the normal stuff!" hehheh! nice way to compliment :) actually being heavily influenced by the writing style of Ayn Rand. So thought lets mess up a little ;)