Today I met the woman with inky hair responsible for my recent love woes.
Friday I had waited for her with a fluffy Maltese puppy I had borrowed from a friend, and with a gift wrapped in a fancy red napkin tied with a blue ribbon. It was a practical book on how to quit smoking, colored with drawings and inked with poetical phrases.
But I waited on the wrong street at the wrong time and I missed her.
*
Today I waited for her on the right street and at the right time, but without the puppy, which was indisposed.
I stared at the corner of the street. A woman appeared. It was she!
I walked toward her, my heart in my mouth. The phrases I had rehearsed all weekend vanished from my head.
She was pear-shaped, which is my favorite figure for a woman’s body.
She wore jeans and a denim jacket.
She was eating a kind of pie.
As I got closer I realized that what I had feared most was happening: her hair was not as inky as I thought, and her face was not the face I hoped for.
It was the face of a woman who does not read poetry or listens to music or indulges in fantasies of any kind.
Her face was painfully real.
She must be at least 35, maybe more. Probably unhappily married.
*
I walked past her, reproaching myself for spending my weekend turning a silly self-help book into an unpretentious object of art.
Then I turned and ran after her.
‘Wait a moment!’ cried I.
I stopped next to her. She turned and looked at me curiously with beautiful blue eyes. I was slightly taller than her.
I bit my lip.
‘Can you tell me what time it is?’ I asked. ‘My watch stopped working.’
And silly me pointed at my left sleeve.
‘It must be half past eight,’ she said.
I thanked her and she took another bite from her pie and walked on.
I walked away feeling quite miserable, but then I stopped and turned and looked at her until she disappeared from sight.
She had a mighty fine way of walking, and her hair looked great from behind, and her bum was relatively large for her height.
I did not regret not giving her the gift. She would have not understood it.
I arrived home feeling wretched.
*
Now I no longer think of the woman with inky hair.
But of the woman I’ve saw today on the street.
The one with the real face and the blue eyes.
I’ll wait for her again on Wednesday.
With the puppy.
And with a more suitable gift.
Shouldn’t I?
(The Advantages of Being a Writer will have to wait a day or two.)
boy with a hat 
Why must she be “unhappily married?” 🙂
Because that makes the story much more interesting!
Lovely to see that Modigliani picture! Good luck with your writing – you have set yourself a great task and I hope you enjoy your journey. All my best to you, Ruth 🙂
Nice of you to say that Nina.
I tip my hat!
What a wild ride! And in so short a space. Your imagination is fabulous; and your understanding of human foible, brilliant. I am impressed–and yes, do go wait for the real woman next week…It’s the right thing to do. Super write.
I shall wait for her again tomorrow! With the puppy.
And I hope that with an umbrella.
The weather forecast is favorable. Fog and rain.
That will make everything more romantic.
I love your tales of the woman with the inky hair… 🙂
They will continue tomorrow!
There is not a gift more suitable than something made by yourself for her… perhaps you could immortalise her in a poem, maybe a sonnet, and put it in an envelope. The envelope could be sealed with red wax in the shape of a heart or wrapped with red ribbon. 🙂
Dear Daniel… I suspect you have prepared an envelope like the one you describe for one of your Irish sweethearts.
Not yet, but when I find that One, then I will. I got the idea from the sealing-wax candles on my shelf. 🙂
Sounds like (and I really hate to say this) that you’ve grown up a bit over the weekend. No woman can compare to your fantasy. But you’re learning that reality can be pretty dang good most of the time. Do not expect much from this woman- she might not understand your need to give her a present. But don’t let that deter you. Never lose that streak of romance. It will serve you well when you do meet that one person that steals your heart and your soul.
Snowy Paul,
I’ve learned this lesson a few years ago. It happened several times before.
But I unlearn it every time I fall in love.
It’s because of my frail heart and big imagination.
🙂
Hhmm…
A proper reply you’ve given me dear Julita.
I wonder what it means…
you learned a great lesson about fantasy and reality and learned it with grace…did you look for a wedding ring on her left hand???? I think we need our curiosity to be satisfied so that we can move forward in our daily lessons called life…:-)
I’ve learned this lesson before. But I always forget it when I fall in love.
Unfortunately I did not because I was too taken with her.
But I will look tomorrow.
Oh,this is reality…We expect more than it can give.
But maybe reality knows much better what we need than we do…
well, that is an inspiring view. 😀
This is riveting.
The woman, the story, the puppy, or everything?
I like this. There’s an innocence to it, and I like the idea of a stalker acting out of innocence, not that the narrator is exactly stalking…
You are a true romantic..a beautiful rarity. I love your adventure. How lovely to be her, and to not even know her effect on you.
This story just made my day.
Now that you have encountered the real woman, yes, I think you should present her a gift. The puppy can be optional.
What kind of pie was it? This you must find out – it is the key to all her mystery.
I think it was a regional specialty with cheese in it!
Oh, that’s exactly the kind of woman you want.
Lovely to see Modigliani and this was VERY entertaining.
I want to pinch your check when I read this story 🙂
*Blushes*
Ah, the love woes of reality. I am impressed with your attempted meeting (though less so with the misuse of a puppy pimp…)
The puppy was not at all misused thank you!
He went for a pleasant walk, saw new sights, was scratched behind the ear, pulled by the whiskers, and fed delicious food!
In fact he’s become quite fond of me.
Still a puppy pimp 🙂
Sometimes, dear boyo, Vincent, we ,writers have to simply let love remain written if we expect magic from it.
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