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.)