But paradise is locked and bolted...
We must make a journey around the world
to see if a back door has perhaps been left open.
HEINRICH VON KLEIST, ''On The Puppet Theater''
IN THE BEGINNING
Helston , England
September 1854
Around midnight, her eyes at last took shape. The look in them was feline, half determined and half tentative --- all the trouble. Yes, they were just right, those eyes. Rising up to her fine, elegant brow, inches away from the dark cascade of her hair.
He held the paper at arm's lenght to assess his progress. It was hard, working without her in front of him, but then, he never could sketch in her presence. Since he had arrived from London --- no, Since he had first seen her --- he'd had to be careful always to keep her at a distance.
Every day now she approached him, and every day was more difficult than the one before. It was why he was leaving in the morning --- for India, for the Americas, he didn't know or care. Wherever he ended up, it would be easier than being here.
He leaned over the drawing again, sighing as he used his thumb to perfect the smudged charcoal pout of her full bottom lip. This lifeless paper, cruel imposter, was the only way to take her with him.
Then straightening up in the leather library chair, he felt it. That brush of warmth on the back of his neck.
Her.
...Please coment if you think I should write more!
