She is beautiful.
If beauty is defined by the eyes of the beholder then I am still beheld by her .
Always impressed by tall women all my life I was mesmerized by the length of her legs that never seem to finish. It encompassed her full frame. It helped that she was standing in line at Tokyo airport where most people were of tiny frames. As I grew closer to her, I just smiled because I could smell her perfume from couple of feet away. I just shivered unwillingly and then I realized why, I was smelling Gucci rush, my favorite kind. As if the aroma and stature of her frame wasn’t enough, her hair were bouncing of her shoulder like they were in playful mood, and as if in harmony they were playing ballet on her shoulder. Then I heard it, the sound of her voice, or should I say the song of her voice, because that sounded like somebody just played veena all over my consciousness. And all this happened before I even saw her face. She was ahead of me in the line and there was a part of me that was aching to meet her eyes and catch a glimpse of her face to complete this little experience
Now she was at the counter, where the line was destined to end, and I was just two paces behind her .
I could see that exquisite jacket with perfect wrap of a scarf just between her neck and still bouncing hair. Not that she needed but it seemed like just to taunt the other inhabitant of this country she was wearing boots with heels clicking away with every turn or a step. She was a perfection even without her face. That’s when the poet in me got struck with a thought.
” Do you want to mess this up?” She was perfect in my mind and when we assume someone to be perfect it’s all downhill from there, because there is no room to be more perfect.
I stepped out of the line and walked in the other direction, never looking back.
After five years of hoping all over the globe, that memory is still fresh as if it was why I fell in love with travel.
That moment when I realized perfection doesn’t need a face.
