Interlude I - Her

A dazzling array of lights and colors shimmered against the backdrop of a cool autumn evening sky. Exotic flowers still shivering with morning dew bloomed instantly into sunbursts and supernovas of exquisite visual debauchery; shadows grew into fearsome legends from ages long past, only to be vanquished by heroes of song and myth; the motifs were legion, and it was a drunken revelry to the eyes and ears, carefully contrived to captivate and enslave the senses.

Every set of eyes, except for two.

The first belonged to a wiry man in his twenties, whose eyes were lost, shipwrecked in the gentle swells of the triple scotch neat he nursed in his hands. His demeanor was unassuming and his physical presence overmodest, yet an air of quiet confidence and deadly earnestness coiled about him like a viper ready to strike. It was no wonder that he drifted about alone in a sea of humanity, drowning on dreams of scotch and visions of another man’s life.

The second set of eyes were steel grey, focused and intent upon their prey.

It was a slow seduction, a dance to be sung for the ages. It started with a single step into his personal space. A subtle calling card, a statement of intent. As all such timeless gestures must be met if they are to be properly savored, it called for the attentions of time - a premeditated affair - just to let it settle. As the weight of it slowly drifted over his shoulders, it was not the wintry breeze of a stranger’s breath but the warm caress of a lover’s embrace.

Love does not impose itself on another. Rather, it bides its time. Patient and abiding like the skies and the mountains, like the stars and the ocean until the day when both meet in a perfect timeless kiss, the sanctity of the occasion and the precious rarity of the moment was enough to give both a pause. They savored the moment, extracted of each second its essence as though to lock it away from the predations of time and circumstance, the sworn enemies of all star-crossed lovers.

And so, for the next few moments, there dwelt a deep, peaceful silence between the man and the woman. It was a spell woven with strands so translucent, so gossamer, that the merest of breaths would have been enough to shatter it. Yet it stood, firm as a deeply rooted tree reaching down, down to the very core and further still, to find that which had secretly been its most dearly coveted desire. Time was of no object, and its streams pooled into an ocean, countless ripples echoing the cadence of their hearts as they beat as one, twined and interlocked, suspended in the absolute void between one man’s destiny and a woman’s fate.

And then it was done. Having served its purpose, it vanished on the wings of a whispered prayer and yearnings buried deep. However, it was done and it had been enough.

For a prelude, it would do.

The man found it necessary to expel wind from his lungs, and form words with his tongue. It all seemed too contrived. He shook his head slowly, then looked in askance to the woman.

“Sophia,” she whispered.

Her lips formed the word yet it was his heart that seized and shook in sweet agony; excruciating bliss.

*Sophia. Ah, Sophia..*

If her name was the poison, he’d gladly drink to the very last drop, if only so that he may taste it for one last time.

Her voice was that of a stranger, but in those eyes he knew her. But his own had forgotten the words they’d so loudly sung in silent tribute mere moments past. And so, churlish and mundane as he felt, he had no choice but to address the voice in order to unveil the mistress behind those twin swirls of mercurial flame.

“I am. My name. That is, I..” the man trailed off. His words were measured and slow, his voice deep and steady, his mind cool and composed. However, there seemed to be no method to bridge the gap between his will and these utterly graceless words which would irrevocably mar this perfect moment.

The woman tilted her head to one side, a minute gesture that encompassed a statement, a question and their mutual resolution. Then her right hand rose from her side and came to rest upon the man’s cheek. It was a deeply intimate gesture, disdaining all ceremony for the immediate, filled to the brim of the here and now.

“I am..”

It was liquid ecstasy, vitriol that burned. Burned brightly, burned fiercely, until there was nothing but ashes.

Isn’t that how all love stories end?

Ashes and the fading whispers of a broken promise.

*My.. Sophia..*