He couldn’t help himself from stealing glances at her as they drove down the dreary street. A street not dreary for lack of sunshine or from absence of things to look at or marvel over, but dreary because of the way she made everything not pertaining to her dim in comparison of all that she was.
She was herself, as she had always been, a chalice of water from the fountain of youth, who’s waters promised renewed life and untold strength if only one could drink of her. Tyrone felt, as he always felt when he was in her presence, a deep tensing of muscles, a quickening of the heart, as if he were preparing to run a race to win her hand, the race announcer counting in slow motion 3, 2, 1. He breathed with forced rhythm, hoping to appear cool, calm and collected, as she appeared to be.
On the roads around them, all of nature appeared to take notice of her passing. Small birds would take to wing in an attempt to take in her image a few moments longer. Traffic lights, who were so cold and red-eyed to Tyrone, would wink green to her as she approached. Women in their finest outfits, of mid-summer blue and playschool red would slouch with lack of self-confidence as her gold-crowned, aqua blue eyes met their sepia colored iris’s. Men in fine made designer clothing would stand erect and flash their bleached-white teeth and UV-tanned skin in hopes to attract her fickle, ever-changing, life-giving gaze.
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