Sights of Lily Christianson

Sunlight cascaded from peep-holes in the clouds, fingers of warmth and radiance. It made the wet ground shine like silver, the asphalt opalescent obsidian. Reflections beamed back at their casters from glassy puddles, though booted feet twisted the happy doppelgangers without care. Dampened and dreamlike, grassy perfumes were carried on the wind.

When she smiled, the world smiled back.

I smiled back; smiled from behind water-streaked glass, my pane of protection from things cold, damp, and infatuating. She left my sight, and I found my fingers frozen again, my whole body stiff with her passing.

A different day, a different sighting.

Rain fell with a rhythmic patter-pit, a beat to which jacketed pedestrians trudged to. Dark skies, dark clothes, dark faces. We really are controlled by the weather, it seems. Fall colours in their season, spring prints in their time.

Lily wore white, a beacon in the storm. A white canopy separated her from the gloom all about, and worked so much better than ever imagined. Her face coveted a smile, pursed lips laced in deep pink. None seemed to notice her. None seemed to stare.

But I did.

My own smile joined hers, a personal sign shared between only us. I smile when she smiles, I frown when she frowns. She sets my scene, governs my emotions for the seconds she is in my window.

And as ever I found my hands immobile, hung in the air as if trapped. And as always I closed my laptop, content in my moment with Lily Christianson.

The End

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