By Patrick Nelson
Satin, silk and skin all had that famous texture. All were highly prized
by men. Men had that hard nature which they somehow thought would be
smoothed out--exfoliated away--if they could just have some decadent,
otherworldly softness to rub up against for a while. Like a cold
compress or magical balm, it would soothe and ease the roughness, but
after the sensation settled and they became accustomed to it, they
tended to let the disappointment sour. Anger would soon emerge as they
found it wasn't permanent escape. Marisol was a keen, sharp girl and she had learned when to recognize the sly, content quality ebbing from their gaze. She knew exactly when the look would turn into the undertow of their emotions--always finding the perfect time to wade to shore and pad off through the wet sand.
She never let the men in her life check her off their list. She left them at the exquisite departure point that would leave her a frozen, fascinating siren in their memories. They would never move on to the next phase of their brooding metamorphosis. They would always picture her walking away in the rain taking their dreams of keeping her as theirs.
We've all
had--all us men--that one young woman whom we couldn't bend or tame.
Knowing we could never have her just made us want her all the more. We
daydreamed on her changing her mind about us and coming back through the
grey distance, right back to our arms. She would just be a formless
smile floating beneath that orange parasol. The rest of her would swirl
through the driving rain and wind, slowly piecing herself back together
for us. She would come so close we could almost feel the satin of her
light dress. We could nearly taste the salt at the nape of her neck.
This would only be a cruel phantasm, because we knew she was already
miles away. We were just letting the truth hide behind her hem.
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