She gently
chained her steps into the cold damp pavement, guided by an unpretentious and
sad slowness typical of someone whose life was taken. Beautiful and delicate strings
of black hair inebriated her aspect, like shadows, exalted by the elegant
clothes which covered from the neck to her feet, which stood on impressive high
heels. Everything about her was elegant and sad. Her eyes were calm, though,
and disguised her secrets with an almost irresistible charm.
Through
the melancholic deepness of her black eyes, a thought lingered far. She had no
children, no husband, no family, not even friends. There was only an unwavering
presence in her apartment, always waiting for her at the end of the day: her
loneliness.
She
didn’t want to face that yet, because her eyes were conducive to crying. With
that in mind, she chose the bookstore that stands nearest to her office as a
temporary home. Her crestfallen walk was nothing but a poor interpretation of
the votes she had made of a lukewarm life, subtly curved, like a spiral of
boredom.
It
would be unimaginable that any man dared to approach, even if moved by a good
reason, but there was someone sitting at the same Café where she walked in who
had considered the idea. Dennis was a man with a mysterious and inexplicable attractiveness.
A body pale and slender, straight hair purposely mussed, he crossed his legs to
read a newspaper, bordering his eyes above the horizon at the top of the paper,
watching the graceful movements of sad woman that came in.
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