Women in my life.

11:50 AM

I’m lookin’ at her, staring, in fact.

She’s aware, and grows conscious. She darts her eyes and steals glances at me, kinda makin’ sure if I’m still looking.

I am.

Her fingers are in constant motion (she always fiddles with her fingers, a strange habit of hers).

I still remember those days. The memories are so strong and afresh that I can almost feel her near me.

I can almost smell that heavenly aroma that always emanates from her.

I’m lost…

12:53 PM

She’s sitting on the bench directly in front of me.

She ties up her hair. She too smells extremely good.

Her hair hangs on my side of the bench now. I touch it, feel it.

I imagine things I can’t even put into words.

7:35 PM

I’m standing outside my home. It’s quite dark.

I’ve been waiting for quite a long time now. She appears around the end of the street.

What can I say?

Just seeing her walking by like that every evening is enough to make my day.

Only if I could talk to her more openly…

9:47 PM

Just got off the phone.

Was talkin’ to her. She’s the most amazing girl I’ve ever met in my life.

I swear none of the above even comes close.

I agree I like ‘em all.

But, she’s she, and will always be!

A young woman stood before the railing, speaking to the reception clerk. Her slender body seemed out of all scale in relation to a normal human body; its lines were so long, so fragile, so exaggerated that she looked like a stylized drawing of a woman and made the correct proportions of a normal being appear heavy and awkward beside her. She wore a plain gray suit; the contrast between its tailored severity and her appearance was deliberately exorbitant--and strangely elegant. She let the fingertips of one hand rest on the railing, a narrow hand ending the straight imperious line of her arm. She had gray eyes that were not ovals, but two long, rectangular cuts edged by parallel lines of lashes; she had an air of cold serenity and an exquisitely vicious mouth. Her face, her pale gold hair, her suit seemed to have no color, but only a hint, just on the verge of the reality of color, making the full reality seem vulgar. Keating stood still, because he understood for the first time what it was that artists spoke about when they spoke of beauty.

-Dominique’s introduction in Fountainhead by Ayn Rand.

She’s my Dominique!