Drawn

All human wisdom is contained in these two words - 'Wait and Hope.'

- Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo -

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She always took the same position, on the grass right where the north and east drives intersect, just near 66th Street. It's a lovely part of Central Park, popular with locals. The majestic American elms tower above, their canopy allowing dappled light to filter thought and...It sets her hair aflame with tinges of red and gold.

Today's breeze made those flames flicker and dance with a life of their own until her slender hand moved, delicate fingers absently tucked those locks behind her ear. She didn't look up from her sketchbook, just frowned slightly, maybe at the breeze, or at something she pondered upon her page. I ran by and didn't stop.

I've seen her here every Saturday for many months now; coffee cup, sketchbook and her box of pencils, these days a small picnic hamper as well. She'd sit and draw.

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The first time I saw her she looked right at me.

I'd stopped right there on the path to re-tie the laces on my runners. I glanced up and saw her looking at me. I panicked - She was so beautiful. Blue-grey eyes the colour of a summer storm over the ocean, long auburn hair, alabaster skin, a light dusting of freckles across nose and cheeks and rosebud lips. So beautiful.

Head down I tied the laces, stood and continued my run without looking over again. I panicked. I didn't want to seem weird. I glanced back over my shoulder though, and caught her gaze just as her eyes shifted from me back to her drawing book.

I did seven laps that day each of them, by some curious coincidence, going right past the intersection of east and north drives; each time she looked up...And I panicked...Until the third lap which is when I ventured a smile. She smiled back.

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She always takes the same position on the grass right where the north and east drives intersect, just near 66th Street. I run laps; a Saturday ritual, and every lap when I come past her she smiles...And I smile back.

When I'm done I run over to her and stretch out peaking over to her sketchbook to see what she's drawing. She hides it. She's always had a thing about me not seeing her artwork until she's done. I laid down beside her after rummaging around in our picnic hamper for my water and closed my eyes, content just to be beside her.

It had been months since I'd seen her for that first time and we were together now; inseparable really.

I smiled inwardly at how wonderful it felt to be a part of her life, her man. I laid there listening to the scratching of pencils colouring upon the page and thought with satisfaction how we'd drawn closer over those months, how we'd coloured our lives with love, the way we wished it. She'd brought colour to my world and through her I discovered inside me what I thought I'd lost...And at the same time I knew I was lost in her. Pleasingly so.

I drifted into a half-sleep, my hand absently reached over to her and rested upon her upper thigh; I needed that closeness, that physical touch - I wanted it. I sank into the moment and knew I never wished to leave it. I was drawn to her.

[A fifteen minute fiction]