/lit/ - Literature

I saw one of the most beautiful women in my life the other day while swiping on tinder. Her premier photo was of her standing on a balcony overlooking the beach, but the photo was taken of her standing next to the sliding glass door which held its reflection. She wore a multicolored bikini with vertical striped dominated by a hard peach color. Her body was gorgeous, of course, but her thighs — although immaculately curved from her wide hips to the slender knee like a logarithm function — betrayed the signs of a former fat child. The skin on them were stretched and seemed older, more calloused than than the creamy pearl of her underarms and waist. Her hair fell around her shoulderblades in a vermillion maroon fire-basket flicking sparks at the ends. Her cheeks, sunburned to babe’s pink, were paint-splattered with pinpoint freckles like grains of sand and, radiating above them, were set two piercing sapphires underneath shaded brows that called out wistfully my name. She had several other photographs of importance, but, to limit the tisim of this blogpost, I will only refer to one more. The last photo was of her leaning over a car window into the cabin of what seemed to be a Jeep. Her head was inquisitively cocked to the side and she held her cheeks with poised, polished hands with pink fingernails. A bracelet on her left wrist dangled above the door handle with the relief of an alabaster Christ on a pennant at the bottom. Her gaze was mesmerizing, as vast as an ocean, deep as the void, those clear azure spheres emanating a simple kindness and warmth which layered its way in splayed curves across her hair, unfolded in the simple smile of her heart, echoed down the smooth relief of her cheekbones and jaw. It was the look of utter enchantment which seldom can find refuge for expression beyond childhood. A dumb, hopeful, loving gaze. The look which you only dream you could show to another one day. Given courage to let down the defenses by her disengagement across from you. Will we ever make it?