Ronda

Her name was Ronda and she was perfect. Never had I been so infatuated, so lovestrucken. She seemed to be a figment of my imagination. She must've been. The way she talks, the way she looks, the way she seems to smile right at me. I had seen her so often in my dreams, along with Santa Claus and President Lincoln. Only they seemed to equate to her beauty. I found my eyes drawn to her. Every part of my body betrayed mine own soul in favor of a new master. Admiration had overtaken me. I could never love another, for she was deserving of all my eternal love. Prom. She rushed out in a hurry away from her date. Opportunity. She was stunning, from her shining, sexy heels, to her dress which seemed as if it had been designed by all the angels in heaven in order to simply accommodate her. But there on her puckered, pillowy, perfect lips lay a cigarette. Right then and there I regained my consciousness. My hands shook. They thrust the rest of my body, unwillingly towards her. My body met her's. My hands completed their sovereign duty. And on the floor lay she dead. I picked up the crooked cigarette and placed it upon my lips. Walked away. No tears. None. It was the sting of the smoke. Walked to the places I had once seen her. I went to the place she had once smiled at me, at second thought, her smile was for another and I had simply commandeered it. I finished smoking then threw the betrayer to the cold, unforgiving ground. I looked at the stars into heaven and realized it was never her face I had seen there. I roamed the campus remembering, then casting those memories into the abyss. I found my way back to the party, then into the hall, into the parking lot, onto the street. I kept walking.