As I Write...

As I write here, she is sitting across from me, old fading cobblestone chunks layered over the walls, gothic chandeliers with pieces of crystal, gingerly caressing a hot light bulb. Her eyes are on the floor, scanning the patterns of granite. Those beautiful eyes, striking shades of emerald green mixed with warm swirls of chocolate, the most awe-inspiring hazel I had ever seen. Thick fluttering eyelashes hang above those perfect eyes, powerful and swaying but yet delicate as a thin sheet of ice.

Her hands are formed neatly upon her polyester-covered lap. Thin, almost bony hands, her skin light enough to separate from the bleach blonde and orange girls, but dark enough to separate her from the black leather and chain people. The tips of her fingers have a fine layer of lime green nail polish, the only bright item in the room, save for that sterile light.

Her hands release their grip in order to adjust the pea green scrunchie place atop her head. Normally her locks would swing behind her, level to her breasts, an elegant hue of brown, as it were tree bark soaked by the morning dew. Today, the silky mass was tied into a ponytail by that srunchie. She fidgeted with it, adjusting it to her comfort.

Then, without warning, she raised her head up, and, for a brief moment, our eyes met. Her fanciful hazel met my dull slate blue. What puzzled me was that a smile was etched on her face, as though she knew my gaze and enjoyed it, but certainly that was not the case, so to hide from her goddess-like looks, I bowed my head down.

I could only see the cobblestone floor, but I still knew those brown-green orbs were boring a hole in me. A weary sigh came from her light pink painted lips broke an ongoing silence. I heard a ruffling noise and as I shifted my gaze up, I could tell that she was reading a book.

Her thin, pale hands tenderly caressed a fragile mass of paper. The cover shone a layer of laminate and a picture. That picture was of a group of disfigured angry vampires grasping towards me. Below the picture, in bold letters, read: I Am Legend. The book lay rested on her bare knee. Her legs were crossed over but I still saw a hint of black cotton. I followed her legs down, smooth and glistening underneath the light, down to a pair of powder blue flip-flops. Her left foot bobbed up and down across her right leg, her toenails covered in the same shade of green as her fingertips. God, if I ever looked upon the body of perfection, it was now. She was a drastic contrast of the dank hall, a being and shined brightly over the abyss.

“What are you writing?”

I was startled for a bit over that heavenly angelic voice. I raised my eyes up, and I could see her bold emerald green, chocolate-swirled eyes staring at me.

“You want to see it?”

“Yes, I would.”

I took the page I just wrote, rolled it into a sphere, and lobbed it towards her. She placed the book aside and bent to seize the ball. Using her dainty hands, she flattened out the page. She cleared her throat and then…

“As I write, she is sitting across from me.”