Looking like a Greek God, I thought, though I have never come across one. If only he had long hair to blow against the wind – in slow motion. But his spikes refused to budge.
He was beautiful in his skill, gliding smooth, flirting with perfection.
Yet he did not seem happy. His eyes, piercing, pale blue, wore the tortured look of Daniel Radcliffe about to face Voldemort.
Perhaps his performance did not meet his standards. Perhaps it did, and he did not wish to express his glee. Perhaps he wasn’t used to.
Perhaps… he was an introvert. When he first came in, he had given a gentle nod and the suggestion of a smile. No Hello.
When someone clapped at his perfect finish, his eyes softened, merely registering mild pleasure. He didn’t whoop or grin. That’s who he was. He wasn’t covering up. He wasn’t pretending. He was in his own world, battling his own demons.
I could tell he was an artist. Yes – that explains the discontent in his eyes; the look of being forever haunted. Forever miserable. Any measure of success is immediately replaced by the pain of the next quest.
When I left, I knew I would never see him again. Because that was how the world worked. So many of us, walking past, crossing paths, locking eyes, and forgetting the next instant. And sometimes, remembering that brief encounter for a lifetime.
Like the man who painted clouds. The world rushed past, hurrying home to roost, but we stood there, looking up, admiring the perfect monsoon skies, blue and white and grey and breathtaking, and shared the joy. A few stolen moments. Then we parted. Never to meet again.
Some joys in life come and go while we are the least prepared, and they leave behind a fragrance so rich, so intense that we hold on to it for a million years, in our journey past the floods, through the desert, into the wasteland.