My Agony With Her

Where did she come from? And how did she know she was just what I needed? But she did. And she was.

Long ago but at times still seeming like yesterday I was in a relationship that took everything from me. Heart. Soul. Passion. At times I wished my life had been taken as well. I was dead inside.

I stopped writing. I stopped caring. I stopped being. Lost my advance. Lost my apartment. Lost my friends. Just lost. Lost.

She was in a park, beneath a tree, hair caressed from her shoulders by the wind, eyes sapphires bewitching the world, lips slightly parted in a delicate hint of a smile. She was not beautiful, she was beauty. Everything sensual and all that is erotic. For the first time in months I felt like trying writing something. Something about her but more than that. A confessional. Not my story. The story of every man lucky enough and unlucky enough to see the depths of his soul standing across from him in quiet splendor.

I watched her for many days before approaching her. I saw her in dresses and pantsuits and jeans. Blouses and jackets and shirts. Heels and flats and sneakers. And she always took my breath. The first time I saw her laugh my heart was pierced. She threw her head back and my world exploded in golden sunshine. White teeth and flashing eyes and thick hair dancing on her shoulders. I was not close enough to hear her laughter, but I have heard Mozart and Rachmaninoff. I went to my room that afternoon and wept for an hour. I slept. Later the sound of cars and people and city night life woke me.

I showered and went into the city night of cars and taxis and music from clubs with hopefuls standing outside while the desirable clientele was allowed to enter immediately. Smells mixing. Car exhaust, cologne, perfume, hotdogs, popcorn. The smell of fine cuisine. Mediterranean. Italian. French. My senses were coming back to life, as was my sensitivity.

Koshari with its lentils and rice and pasta, topped with crispy fried onion. The wonderful simplicity of Bucatini Cacia e Pepe, food of the Roman sheep herders. The straightforward yet flavorful pleasure of Cognac Shrimp with Beurre Blanc. Traces that were leftover from different times. Different people. I had thought that those times and those people mattered. Now they were just a hangover. A bad taste. A bad memory. I had not been in a club or a restaurant or a bar for a year. I had also not touched a woman.

Music from a Salsa club. It reminded me of London and Salsa! Soho. She loved drinking their Watermelon Samba. And Veuve Clicquot Brut Yellow Label. Dinner at Gauthier Soho; her Soft Hazelnut Quail; myself Rack of Welsh Lamb. But that was in another lifetime. It seemed tawdry now. Like we had all been trying too hard. I remembered how happy I could be with a hamburger and a cold soft drink, sitting on a bench watching life. The way it had been when I was hungry to observe and write about what I saw. Immerse myself into all of the thoughts and desires and ideas that might be crazy or wonderful.

I was having coffee outside a cafe that night when I saw her. She was dressed for clubbing. Pure sensuality. A mid-thigh length skirt that was tightly clinging to her body. Heels. Nylons. Firm breasts straining against the fabric of her revealing v-cut neckline, swaying with the rhythm of her seductive movements. My life was cut in half that night. As she walked past the cafe she looked over at me and smiled, and from that moment my existence was demarcated into before her smiling at me and after her smiling at me. So much, so quickly. Just a flicker in that night and very much less of all of that day or that week and nothing to eternity yet everything to me.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/hqhe02/my_agony_with_her