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Description
That laugh, that lovely, infectious laugh; alive, radiant, sweet and spirited.   I would die a millions deaths, and that laugh would still bring me back for more, if only just for me to hear it once more before death would embrace me again.

As if my thoughts were emblazoned on my forehead, she turned her gaze towards me momentarily, wearing that smile of hers, with that sparkle her eyes always seem to wear.  I almost dropped my cup, startled at the sudden change in her attention.  I managed a sheepish smile toward her, at which she replied in kind with her own.  Oh, that smile; again.  Those sweet soft lips formed up into such a simple gesture, yet divinely so.  As she does that, her gaze returns to her female companion, who was giving some reason, to leave abruptly no doubt, from the array of apologies stemming from her.  I watched intently, much like I was studying the situation, as the friend proceeded to leave, leaving her alone with book, her drink, and her thoughts.

My heart begins to beat erratically; feeling like it would burst out of my chest, from the sheer thoughts that had suddenly crossed my mind.  A voice creeps into my head, deafening, yet not overwhelming, and urging my thoughts on.  My gaze still transfixed on her, as she slowly and deliberately flips through the pages of her book.  The sun was not brilliant on this day, yet, she seemed so radiant, even in the absence of brightness.  It was as if she herself glowed, ethereal like, was that even possible?  What little sun that peeked through the clouds and tree shades, seem to accentuate her every being.  Like the fine layer of hair on her arms, catching the little sunlight like morning dew.  Her hair, tied up into a simple pony tail, with some rebellious tresses falling gracefully over her face, where she would unconsciously and gracefully comb them back with her delicate fingers, only to have them fall yet again.  The way her lips seem to move, those lovely, soft, lips.  The way her fingers would seek out a nook in the pages of her book, so she could flip it over, to continue the book that had so entranced her attention.

My trance suddenly broke, as I found myself walking towards her, as if a spectator of my own self, watching myself approaching her table slowly, watching absorbedly, yet in both shock and awe, at what was unfolding in front of my eyes.  Surreal, like a dream, I see myself stopping in front of her, uttering something, comprehensible, I tell to myself, and after receiving her friendly response, sitting opposite her.  Almost like a script being written as I say it out, still watching myself talk to her from a distance.  Words seem to flow out of me now, mostly questions and observations, all seeming like confessions.  My spectator self watches in amazement, as the two of us seemed to settle down into a conversation, her words equally beautiful as the voice that carries them.  Watching myself talk to her, watching her response to the words I utter, enthralled, a spectator to myself, still disbelieving what was unfolding.

It seemed like only a few moments, yet it was hours since I first watched myself approach her, sitting down and talking to her.  The sun has said its farewell for the day, and like the radiance of it, so has she.  When we parted ways, it was like two people familiar with each other, yet still a mystery to each other, saying goodbye, pledging a next meeting.

I sit back and breathe in deeply, as if I had just accomplished a titanic task.  How would it not have been titanic? I had come face to face with a goddess, and I had actually been able to utter comprehensible words.  Looking down at the note she wrote down for me, displaying to me her name, and details of how we could possibly meet again at another time.  A feeling of joy suddenly permeates throughout my being; I felt like jumping for joy, I felt like I had conquered the world.  I felt like telling everyone, telling the papers perhaps, of what had transpired today.  I look down again at the napkin, at her handwriting, smiling to myself, like a father smiling proudly at his son, folding it slowly; slipping it into my pocket and leaving.

Description
That laugh, that lovely, infectious laugh; alive, radiant, sweet and spirited.   I would die a millions deaths, and that laugh would still bring me back for more, if only just for me to hear it once more before death would embrace me again.

As if my thoughts were emblazoned on my forehead, she turned her gaze towards me momentarily, wearing that smile of hers, with that sparkle her eyes always seem to wear.  I almost dropped my cup, startled at the sudden change in her attention.  I managed a sheepish smile toward her, at which she replied in kind with her own.  Oh, that smile; again.  Those sweet soft lips formed up into such a simple gesture, yet divinely so.  As she does that, her gaze returns to her female companion, who was giving some reason, to leave abruptly no doubt, from the array of apologies stemming from her.  I watched intently, much like I was studying the situation, as the friend proceeded to leave, leaving her alone with book, her drink, and her thoughts.

My heart begins to beat erratically; feeling like it would burst out of my chest, from the sheer thoughts that had suddenly crossed my mind.  A voice creeps into my head, deafening, yet not overwhelming, and urging my thoughts on.  My gaze still transfixed on her, as she slowly and deliberately flips through the pages of her book.  The sun was not brilliant on this day, yet, she seemed so radiant, even in the absence of brightness.  It was as if she herself glowed, ethereal like, was that even possible?  What little sun that peeked through the clouds and tree shades, seem to accentuate her every being.  Like the fine layer of hair on her arms, catching the little sunlight like morning dew.  Her hair, tied up into a simple pony tail, with some rebellious tresses falling gracefully over her face, where she would unconsciously and gracefully comb them back with her delicate fingers, only to have them fall yet again.  The way her lips seem to move, those lovely, soft, lips.  The way her fingers would seek out a nook in the pages of her book, so she could flip it over, to continue the book that had so entranced her attention.

My trance suddenly broke, as I found myself walking towards her, as if a spectator of my own self, watching myself approaching her table slowly, watching absorbedly, yet in both shock and awe, at what was unfolding in front of my eyes.  Surreal, like a dream, I see myself stopping in front of her, uttering something, comprehensible, I tell to myself, and after receiving her friendly response, sitting opposite her.  Almost like a script being written as I say it out, still watching myself talk to her from a distance.  Words seem to flow out of me now, mostly questions and observations, all seeming like confessions.  My spectator self watches in amazement, as the two of us seemed to settle down into a conversation, her words equally beautiful as the voice that carries them.  Watching myself talk to her, watching her response to the words I utter, enthralled, a spectator to myself, still disbelieving what was unfolding.

It seemed like only a few moments, yet it was hours since I first watched myself approach her, sitting down and talking to her.  The sun has said its farewell for the day, and like the radiance of it, so has she.  When we parted ways, it was like two people familiar with each other, yet still a mystery to each other, saying goodbye, pledging a next meeting.

I sit back and breathe in deeply, as if I had just accomplished a titanic task.  How would it not have been titanic? I had come face to face with a goddess, and I had actually been able to utter comprehensible words.  Looking down at the note she wrote down for me, displaying to me her name, and details of how we could possibly meet again at another time.  A feeling of joy suddenly permeates throughout my being; I felt like jumping for joy, I felt like I had conquered the world.  I felt like telling everyone, telling the papers perhaps, of what had transpired today.  I look down again at the napkin, at her handwriting, smiling to myself, like a father smiling proudly at his son, folding it slowly; slipping it into my pocket and leaving.