She sits alone, ten feet away from where I am. Her eyes are glazed over with a sad memory, perhaps- a memory of love. The two are often connected in a bitter sweet accord; memories of love, whether, a melancholic memory of a long forgotten true love, or the bitter memory of unrequited love often are sad. Her eyes look sad- maybe melancholic.
Her legs are at length, crossed at her ankles- sitting comfortably. Her eyes, though, sad- almost defeated, are beautiful and wide, a picturesque pair of blue-ish green eyes that seem inviting. Her hands are resting on the table, fingers lightly drumming a tune. I cant make it out, but Im sure its a sad love song, a song of memory- as it often is at times like this.
A book, not read, sits in between her delicate- thin hands. Emma by Jane Austin. A perfect read for someone with sad eyes. Her hair is long- dark brown, with amber highlights that fit her perfectly. Her hair is lightly curled, parted down the middle and pushed behind her ears- giving me a perfect view of her face- of her sad beautiful eyes.
Our eyes meet and without reason seem to find comfort in each other. Embarrassed to have invaded her world, I timidly look away. I can see her in vivid detail in my mind. And thats enough for now. As I sit here- I wonder what she looks like under a different light- with eyes devoid of sadness. I will never know- and so I let me eyes cautiously once again find her- sitting ten feet away.
Her fingers are still drumming a tune on the table. Her fingernails are painted with a soft pink. Her eyes are drifting around the caf. What is she looking for? Who is she looking for? I watch her as she looks around- and wish I knew her name. Her eyes have come full circle and now looking at me. She offers a friendly smile- a half smile, a sweetly shy smile. Our eyes are connected- and searching each other for something we dont even know. I smile back. And our eyes in unison disconnect and look away.
Two smiles desperate with want yet holding onto distance is the only introduction we will have- I am sure of this. And as I sit here wishing I knew her as an old lover surely knows her: her scent, the way she wakes in the morning, the way her eyes look after hearing three sweet words, who she is on lazy Sunday afternoons. All I know is what I can see but even that cant be trusted; my mind only sees what it wants to see.
Emma remains open in front of her, somewhere in the middle. The page remains unread- it remains to be turned to the next page. Her eyes are cast down- given up on what she was looking for (or who she was looking for). Her hair- free from behind her ears flows freely around her face- hiding her. She is stunning in a way I cant explain; in a way I dont understand.
I decided that I dont want to remember her simply as, girl with sad eyes, so Ive named her Elizabeth. Its important to remember her, to remember Elizabeth. Though we have not exchanged words- weve met in a way. We offered each other a smile- a moment of comfort and sometime thats all first meeting are.