A SHORT STORY BY MONICA ARSENAULT
"Excuse me, do you have the time?" The first thing I noticed was her eyes. They were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. They were so blue, a gentle blue that really caught your attention. You could drown in them. Her eyes were more blue than the sky.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I couldn't remember, I was too busy studying the perfect shape of her pale face, how every feature seemed to be so proportionate and how her brown hair made those eyes even more noticeable. Her hair fell so perfectly, with little waves all throughout it, ending in the middle of her back.
“Do you have the time?" It was such an odd expression - what I mean is that it's rarely used. Usually, people demand the time from a stranger with a dismissive "What time is it?" but not her. She said these words with class and grace. She seemed so comfortable saying it, as if she had been speaking only these simple words her whole life.
"Oh, it's 6:15," I told her, she thanked me and then turned to walk away. She faced the trains with an expectant poise that raised my suspicions. Her clothing looked as if it was designed for her. Even though it was winter and she was wearing a layer or two, her clothes still held her shape. Her slim, warm jacket hugged the small curves of her body and almost sighed with delight to belong to someone so beautiful. The scarf that was coupled with her skirt and gloves in color and style offered sweet relief for her cold skin. Her hands were soft, you could tell even with the gloves on. The way she was so graceful with them in everything she did, those were the hands of a careful seamstress.
Her skirt was long enough to cover everything that needed to be covered, but short enough to leave a little fun for a young man's imagination. This is what was amazing; that a skirt could still hold the shape of the curves on someone so thin. She wasn’t thin to the point where it was sickly or even close to that, on the contrary, she was the perfect body shape. Her legs, covered in patterned tights, were holding up this masterpiece with such grace and style. One leg straight, and the other bent, but she wasn't leaning. I'm not sure how she did it, but when she stood up straight her body was completely proportionate, no leaning or slouching, and when she bent one leg it was exactly the same. Almost as if she were suspended in a moment of continuous walking, walking in boots that just covered her ankle and had a slight heel to make a clicking sound when she stepped. It was difficult not to stare.
She was waiting for someone, but she wasn't impatient. She stood, looking around, and finally saw a man carrying a briefcase. She walked over to him with her hips gently swaying back and forth and her feet effortlessly carrying her forward. Her walk was enough to stun any man, but this man had an agenda. She asked him the time, I was reading her small, red lips and she asked him a second time. I could not see the man's face, it was turned in the opposite direction, and he was looking towards the trains. He never made eye contact with her, I could tell, he kept moving his head around. When they had finished their exchange, she turned and began to walk in the direction of the trains as he exited the station.
When she was a good distance away, I closed my book and followed her. I did this not because of her beauty or her eyes, I did this because this is the woman I was hired to murder.
- 2012 -