Cardinale

She's wearing no jewelry or accessories, not even a pair of earrings. She doesn't need any. Even the simplest adornment would look superfluous, would mar a beauty so natural. She is wearing makeup, but it's been applied so sparsely that it's barely noticeable. Clear gloss highlights her dark pink lips, and she has ostensibly used mascara to volumize her eyelashes. The rest is God-given perfection. Her cheeks are naturally rosy and instinctively elicit lust from men and women alike. Her skin is so delicately pure and blemish free that, more often than not, other women's reaction upon seeing it must be one of awe rather than of jealousy. She doesn't even have a vaccination scar on her left shoulder.

Her hair is short and looks good that way. The ends curl like commas under her dainty ears. Black and lustrous, her short bangs are swept across her forehead by the humid mid-August wind.

The wind is blowing the skirt of her sheer, one-piece dress in a like manner; but, remarkably, although it's a considerable breeze and the dress' hem only extends mid thigh, no hint of what lies beneath is visible, and she makes no effort whatsoever to ensure that passersby aren't given the assuredly pleasant surprise of glimpsing her panties. Squinting from the sun's rays, she continues looking up at the bus sign, her eyes crescent slits.

She's holding a cell phone and a leather day planner chest high in one hand; her other arm hangs idly free. Her nails are painted opal, as are her toes. On her feet are low-heel dress sandals, and her legs look none the worse for it. She doesn't need pumps. Her legs are lithe stalks, her cute knees ripe fruit.

I am taken aback. Here, at this bus stop, on this corner, at this precise time, is beauty incarnate. Despite myself, I furtively keep glancing at her -- but only for a second, like I'm viewing a solar eclipse without ocular protection. She is love and lust personified, and I am a mute witness to the unspoken glory of physical sublimity.

The breeze wafts her scent my way. Baby powder and olives. Like a dream I had. I know her name can't be Lucy, but that's what I'll call her. A woman of her singular attractiveness doesn't need a name, anyway, but Lucy she shall be.

To be in her presence for only a little longer, I pray that she is taking the same bus I am. I have forgotten all of my worries, my hitherto stressful day but a vague memory. For she is life. She is a breath of the freshest air. Please, God, let me stay near her. Let me bathe my senses in her magnificence.

My bus arrives, but when it's apparent she's not going the same way I opt to stay. I have an appointment that I'll be late for, but that's a welcome sacrifice. I want to prolong this moment as much as I possibly can.

Two minutes later, her bus -- Lucy's bus -- arrives. I'm tempted to hop on and go wherever it takes me, but I freeze before doing so. I wonder where she's going. I suppose I'll always wonder where she is, what she's doing. Something pretty neat, I bet.

I like her very much.