He first saw her in the middle of the city and he knew at once that she was the one. A dreamy girl with a sweet smile, eyes meeting his just as she disappeared into the crowds. He searched for her in vain. He was late for university that day.
He saw her again over the years. In the aisle of a bookshop. Across a crowded bar. Each time he tried to speak to her, but she merely smiled and glided away. Once he followed her through the streets, entranced by her long, shimmering hair and slender figure, but he lost her again. He went back to his apartment and stared at his desk.
He tried to forget her. He tried to lead a regular life. The office was enough he told himself, the car, the mortgage, the girlfriends who drifted in and out of his life. But it wasn’t. He’d seen her and she had his heart forever.
Success took a long time. He was a middle-aged man by the time his novel was released. Those years had been well spent. The critics and reviews were glowing. The publishers played on his image as a lonely, sensitive soul. Who was the inspiration behind his female character? The writer played along with the mystery.
But then he saw her at the last book signing, beside the line of curious, excited fans. When the signing was over, he slipped away and ran outside.
And there she was, not a day older than when he had first seen her.
He reached out but she shook her head.
“You know how I feel,” he said, “You were the only one.”
Her eyes were sad, “Haven’t I given you everything you wanted?”
“I want you.”
“I am not of your world,” his muse kissed him softly on the lips. Then she faded into thin air. The writer was all alone, his heart aching from a love that had tormented him his whole life, a love which nothing on this earth could ever come near.
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© 2014 M. C. Dulac