A Dream's Reaity

When the Leaves Blossomed (Part II)

 I remember the day I saw her. Each crevice of her face; the passion in her eyes, the smiling lips indicating the perfect beauty of a goddess. I fell in love the moment I saw her. The moment I discovered her. She was abandoned, left to rot under dust and forgotten relics. How could anyone leave someone so beautiful to crumble into mere ash? Fortunately, I discovered her before she was tainted, stained or tarnished in a lonesome desert.

But there she was. Back to her former glory. And near me in my home. If she were any other relic, I would have shipped her off to a British museum. But not her. Not Aphrodite. Her beauty was boundless, and no other woman can compare to her elegance. That is why I adore her.

A few years ago, a woman asked me if I would like Aphrodite to come to life. I told her that it would be most unsatisfactory. I am not a man who wishes his statue to live and breathe as Pygmalion once did. I am also not a man who looks for love. It had never been my forte. I had found my love in archeology and Aphrodite––my beloved statue––with it. I had never gone back since.

Despite my devotion, I had encounters with women that had been unpleasant because of their behavior towards me. A girl in grade school, a woman in my archeology class, a woman in Greece before my eternal dedication to Aphrodite, and a woman in my greenhouse. Each of them tried to seduce me, and each utterly failed. Because they were thinking of the wrong man. They were thinking of a man interested in the present and future. I am not such a man. I am a man of the past. I respect its flaws and perfections as I dive into each artifact's background and history. Occasionally, I link the past and present––as history tends to do––but I only do so to discover a culture's beginning and result.

Perhaps that is why I love Aphrodite. That love is perhaps why I keep my distance from the opposite sex. But there were a few exceptions to this rule. Milly, for instance. She had lived in and taken care of my home ever since I inherited it approximately five years ago. But like other women over the age of forty, I was not afraid of her wiles, jealousy, or childish behavior most young women seem to exhibit. There were also my female students. I tend to search for the look on their faces and the fidgets from their hands and tapping feet before I make my final judgment of assisting them in their studies. Though my experience with love or lust-struck girls had been filled with awkward ramblings, blushful stutters, and somewhat subtle hints of their untoward affection, one woman, in particular, was absolutely shameless in her attempt. But I paid the consequences for her obsession.

She had visited me on a Friday afternoon. I was preoccupied with Aphrodite's charms and beauty. The symmetry, the grace, the character shown by her mere figure had captivated me yet again. I then began to wonder who the model was; what she thought and accomplished. How did she compare to her statue? Why had she posed this way with a sheet over her figure? Why had the sculpture chosen it? Yet I knew how the sculptor used this technique of showing his skills and why, but not the woman. The wheels in my mind began to turn as I could hear the sound of someone walking down the steps. I thought it was Milly before I became distracted again by Aphrodite.

Unfortunately, it was a younger woman; perhaps the same age as one of my students––or the student I was currently tutoring. She was quite heavyset and wore a dress covered in a pattern of flowers of different colors and kinds. One might have called her pretty or even perhaps beautiful, but that was not my perception of the woman. She swayed across the room as if she were a lioness luring in her prey, and her eyes gave a lustful glow for wanton, power, and desire. I found her Southern American accent repulsive as I nearly flinched at each syllable she uttered, and I found her rather distasteful and frightening.

I watched and examined Aphrodite's features as I heard her ask, "Professor Howard?" I turned around to see who asked for me. Before I had a moment to confirm her accusation, she shrieked––a most horrible sound––and exclaimed with an ear-shattering pitched voice, "It is you! Oh, golly! Gee, wiz!" She hurriedly came my way as I began to run away from her, frightened at what she might do to me. When she noticed my reaction, she stopped and snickered. "Oh, professor, I apologize. It's just been years since I last saw ya." I merely stared at the creature as she looked at me. "You don't recognize me do ya, prof?"