My inquisitive nature has led me to foreign places. I’ve understood the nature of exploring the odyssey of unique beauty, obvious and tranquilly available at my grasp. Spain had been at my selection, rich in the lather of cultural heartiness. Old dust, buildings erected from history, and life living in the spirit of the people recovered from old traditions.
The vast array of pleasantry undressed before my mind’s eye, a taste for what I needed lay in the curves of one sweet woman. She, I had noticed, had made every attempt to remain a canvas, painted in perfection. Tastefully alluring, yet aloof, a Mona Lisa if you will; she’d been resurrected in my eyes as Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. In his time, Leo had become so enamored with her, that he carried her with him for a long duration after her birth. It was concluded that France is where he sold her for a pleasant cost. In my position, I rendered the genius madness of da Vinci, led astray to engross myself in her world.
Ms. Taylor was enough to cement my intrigue. Light in laughter, leveled in important worldly issues and soft with her hands, Ms. Taylor, I had come to learn, had many admirers for such reasons. She escaped easily beneath the thickest skin, melted away the layers of brick protecting any powerful entity and slithered away on her belly. In my discoveries, I’ve pitied so many who’d assume to be the lucky lad that would place a ring on her finger. I’d observed in my duties as an agent of the law to remedy justice under the jurisdiction of detective work.
She had come to me in extreme urgency. Afraid for her life, she despaired an obsessed lover, an unknown face, a stalking villain. Should she expect any less? She was beautiful, indeed. The fools beyond the perimeters of intelligence understood only the beauty and intimacy of her poison. Beyond the canvas, beyond the dripping oil, the alluring smile upon her noxious façade, laid only retribution to intervene. I had tasted the sweetness of the exotic lands of many countries. I had never, however, tasted sweet red lips, like rose pedals muttering through shallow breath. A fragile flower beneath my grip, so tender and brittle, like Spain’s decrepit structures lying in ruins, lying breathless; she understood my urgency for such venture.
She understood that I needed silence. She was silent for me. The hands of justice had granted her wish for latitude. She was in transit now to a place that gave her this freedom. And finally, I was married to my own greatest desire. She was mine at last—my own personal masterpiece—lying dead on the floor, bought at premium price.
A short story/flash fiction I wrote in 2005. I hope you enjoyed it, as it’s slightly darker than my original posts. ❤