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Short piece of original fiction, written while listening to "Falling in Love again" by Doris Day. The song made me cry, so this came out...any feedback, criticisms, and suggestions for improvement are welcome.
I saw the pictures today, in the magazine.
She was dressed in white, and he was in black, the perfect colours for a wedding couple. Her eyes were looking down, as if she was shy, but you could see it, right there - that smile. That smile that was as beautiful and sweet, like she was. It reflected how polite and gentle she was, like she found something funny but didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of everyone by even giggling about it. Or if she knew that - somewhere, in the world - someone, any one, was down in the dumps, or pissed off from all the shit they’ve had to put up with in life, and looked like they needed something like a light to brighten their day or a flame to melt the ice. And there it was; her lovely, green eyes, watching them, making notes on the pain they felt or the frustrations they had to go through. Then, without being patronizing in anyway whatsoever, she’d take on some of that pain, and let them know it; just to show that they weren’t so alone after all.
Her lips would then curl so softly at the edges, like a reverse umbrella, except that it never made things worse, but instead made it better. It was as if she both understood the pains and sorrows of the world, and shared in its joys in the most secretive way as possible.
We were just two different strangers, in worlds that would never let us be together no matter how much they seemed to collide. But still, I used to dream about that smile, every night, since I had gotten to meet her in person. When I was asleep, it was always there in my mind: it would greet me as the sun when I woke up (actually, when my mind made me think I was waking up), it would echo my laughter in the afternoon, and it would provide a cushion for me to lean on in the evening, when I wanted to forget about everything the day threw at me and lose myself, peacefully, in her warmth.
And then, one day, after having to just stand at arms’ length for so long, I had finally plucked up the courage to ask her out to dinner.
She just grew pale as a sheet; and said that she couldn’t make it, hastily laying the blame on a meeting she had to go to at eight, or other. The next day, one of her agents - a member of the same family as me - told me to stop coming, since I was scaring the shit out of one of his most important clients with my very presence (in his so-oh-formal words).
Being how I was, I knew that I’d never do anything to make her upset…I didn’t want to see the beauty gone from her sweet face and replaced with worried eyes that have to dart over her shoulder to check and see whether there’s something dangerous behind or in front of her, or not. So I complied in the end, and immediately cut off my visits to the studio where she worked.
At least now she’s got a reason to smile, again.