I see beauty as a painting. As a picture. As a dream.
One of the girls, at the bookstore, gave me the sensation that every time I saw her it was the first time. Like discovering her beauty over and over again. But I don't even remember the actual first time I saw her. When I try to think of that all I can remember is a dream she was in. Although, I doubt I had that dream before I met her. But I did feel like that.
In the dream she was an angel, all in white with feathers falling on her. She was standing out in the street at night in the middle of the road. It was messy, but she was safe. I stood at the side waiting for a break in the traffic. But a gap never showed, so we just stood there staring at each other. Oh and it was bucketing down rain so heavily that we were both soaked, drenched. So we stood there smiling at each other as the heavily rain and traffic roared on. Every now and then a gust of wind would blow and her clothing would fly around with feathers fluttering into traffic.
That was the dream. And I tried to have it often. I tried to have it every time I saw her. So there she was. Standing behind the counter serving a customer, and there I sat with a book on the Gold Rush days in country Victoria. Sitting there seeing her hair turn wet, waving around in the wind and passing cars.
The old sepia photos of Ballarat swirled into inkblots wich turned into her eyes staring into mine. Deep into mine. And it made a smile glow from my inside that lightened my head and softened my touch.