Jane is a bath gel nomad. She never uses the same product twice. She switches through aromatic body soaps and gels on her constant search for one that, in her words, "knocks me out with its aromatic lusciousness".
I admire her noble goal, though I can see how(more) difficult it is for her, especially on a budget.
So for her birthday, I offered to accompany her on the search.
When we got to a rather expensive luxury store, the most curious thing happened to her.
Sales ladies from every counter wandered over to her and asked her what she smelt of.
"Rose and shea butter," she said, describing the unsatisfyingly-scented soap she was using at the time.
"No, no," they said. "It's different."
"What else do I smell of?!" asked Jane, rather too impatiently if you ask me.
They stood in silence, looking at each other nervously, even gulping in that way they show in cartoons.
Finally one tiny lady with a lot of blue eyeshadow piped up,
"Pie. You smell of pumpkin pie. And garlic."
I looked at Jane. "Pie and... garlic?!"
"Heavens," said Jane, stunned.
"It's beautiful," murmured the blue-eyeshadowed woman.
The others swooned gently in agreement.
One of the more business-minded ladies went over to Jane and suggested she bottle the smell and pitch it to the luxury store to sell as a perfume.
"Are you kidding me?!" exclaimed Jane, and walked out huffily.
But much encouragement, coaxing and seven months later, she had a bottle of pumpkin pie and garlic perfume in one hand, and an exclusive distribution rights contract from the luxury store in the other.
"Let's celebrate!" I said.
"I don't think so," she said.
Jane looked at me with derision and said, "I still haven't found a bath soap I like."(less)
He was a beautiful boy. With a toe-head and the brightest blue eyes that anyone has ever seen. Most blondes are pale, but his skin tanned easily and remained olive throughout the cold winter days. It contrasted nicely with his stunning white hair and sparkling straight toothed smile. He(more) was a work of art, as some would say.
In his preteen years his body became longer and leaner. He was what most referred to as 'sinewy'. He had the form of a champion swimmer. Maybe he could have been. Watching him do the 'butterfly' across that pool, was like watching Vincent van Gogh paint. This young man had such skill and grace, he shined.
It took one line to kill all his potential. He snorted it off the mirror when he was just twelve. With that one inhalation through the nose, any life that lay before him was knocked out of the future. He was addicted in that very instant of time. Twelve would be his mentality for the rest of his existence.
At forty-five his pearly white hair lays stringy and flat. His gorgeous straight smile has now rotted away from the effects of meth use. His glowing olive skin, pasty and pocked with sores from the incessant picking that meth heads tend to do. With a mentality stuck at twelve, reasoning with him is out of the question. He gets too high-strung and emotional.
However, His eyes, though clouded and encircled by bruises, tell that his heart is still there. Something of his core has not been stolen by crank. His love is intact. Not even this most insidious drug can steal his heart. I can still feel his love.
As long as he is still alive, there is hope. Maybe some day, he will shine again.
His words knocked out all that I had left in my defense. The walls I built over time, piece by piece crumbled into a mass of benign. Silly on the putty he made of me, I watched the air oblige our passing, comfortably walking side by side. He created(more) the groove and keyed my lock, filling all that was lacking in my half filled cup.
My starry eyes, watched this game show life give me more than a constellation prize. Falling from my balloon tethered dreams he arrived a beautiful intention finally realized. (less)