"One Moment Please . . . "

304 words

Having overfilled his senses with the commercials that pollute the plasma cells of their television, he turns toward the desk, taking in her familiar silhouette as she writes.  Surrounded by the shadows that lay along side, and somewhat darker at its conception, a lock of her hair has fallen loose from its clasp.  Like warm wax dripping down a bottle of Chianti, it conforms as it descends to the line of her cheek.  Visibly, his affection for her settles around him like a fine cashmere sweater.  Her hair color, no more real than a romance novel, exudes an unusual beauty not easily matched.  The tips of her tresses turn white as they dip into the light of the harsh modern halogen desk lamp.

Still unnoticed, he watches her head tilt forward as she mulls over her most recently constructed words.  Arching a little above her forehead like a Spanish doorway, and just enough to impede her vision, that yet un-coached part of her hair dangles forward.  Willingly entrenched in thought, she reaches for it and begins twirling the helpless strands as if to exact body where none exists.  The self-coerced tress whirls round and round her forefinger while the mother-of-pearl on her silver ring chases them like a magnificent carousel.

Then, with one even motion, her left hand whisks it up, placing it just at the back of her ear, and comfortably tucks it in like a well loved child at bedtime.  Now envious of it's position, he is fondly reminded of that narrow crease and the Estee Lauder that lingers there.  Abruptly, like an unexpected fire alarm, the boisterous sounds of football return to the T.V.  His attention is immediately averted, but not before he stores away, like a deed to rare real estate, that brief yet intoxicating image of her.