I'm going to try to write here a story that i wrote years and years ago. it's not even a complete story, like most of the things i've written over the years it's only the beginning of something, the first page, if you will. perhaps this time i'll flesh this out in its entirety.
The train shot forward, and my thoughts drifted to memories of her....
her beauty was so simple to me. it was not the type of beauty that gave men pause. No artists would ever paint portraits of her, no women would ever remark on the quality of her genes or the softness of her complexion. No, her beauty was a quiet, simple thing that to me, was only amplified by its simplicity. I remember meeting her. Rather, I remember first seeing her, she across the cafe, her auburn hair loosely tied in a ponytail. the ribbon holding it together was loosely tied, and looked to be loosening, almost as if it shared my opinion that hair so glorious should never be pent up. She was laughing, smiling, laughing. A hand brought up to her face to brush away a rebellious strand of hair. the hand dropping now, stopping to rest in the crook of her elbow. It was clear she worked here, a waitress to the early morning crowd of retirees that populated this Parisian cafe. Her smile was refreshing though. It was not the perfunctory smile afforded patrons by most waitresses, cashiers, and grocers. You know the smiles, the ones that are almost condescending in their superficiality. No, this was a most genuine smile, it was clear that she was truly pleased to be speaking with whomever it was, right then, right there. This was certainly a girl that found occasion to smile every day, maybe every hour.
Even now, months afterwards, I wonder how different things might have been, had I the courage and boldness to speak to her that day. Would meeting 18 hours earlier have had any affect on the course of events to follow? Would we still have found ourselves on that park bench, on that most wretched of nights? I fear the what ifs, the if onlys, the could haves would have should haves are starting to devour me my mind my heart my soul my my my dear my darling girl. you were so simply and wondrously and beautifully, wonderfully luminous. why, why, why?
(a note: this is something i plan to develop, and i'm quite aware that there are conflicting tenses in this story, but eh.)