She was talking to them, engrossed in a conversation about nothing much except as conversation. It was then that I spotted IT…
The fatal flaw, The minor blemish, The look which would disfigure her for ever…
With another a tooth extruding crookedly. Another the glint of sun from her spectacles as she awoke from an afternoon nap. Yet another, a crooked smile. At first minor detractions from their beauty as beautiful women, people. Petty hurdles, mere happenstance, Then;
Then, then they would grow, mutate to become unscalable mountains of hideousness, oceans of unfathomable depth wherein lurk creatures of unspeakable horror…
yet. Only a spot. A beauty spot, a freckle turned mole, scar perhaps from a former lover. An operation sliver of silver tissue. (Long nights anointing vitamin e cream)
sections of tattoo, three cherries, butterfly, darlin’ly cute, eventually tiresome.
She was talking to them and I saw her blemish, the look that made my blood slow, diminish erections: hormones take a holiday… Don’t get me wrong, I loved this beautiful woman, loved her with all I could muster, my balls would tighten when she gave me that other look, that look sent my tongue rolling after her down the street. A dog on heat. But, this look…
Tore away the veil that hid worms feeding, ripping into flesh, decline of beauty, slow degradation into Oil of Ulay (and surgical tucks) End of warmth, sweat, lust. Bodies straining…
i cannot love them then, turning away until fear subsides, turning in a vain attempt to save the vision. Wanting to keep the photograph clear of greasy thumbprints, away from ice cream soured, now dried and staining the picture.
This is impossible, I look again, positioning to catch IT, IT, that look, that frame. Finding myself straining for the same gaze, being there, looking, staring, seeking that momentary glimpse which will destroy beauty…
neilbenbow 