The Third Person

She is wearing a pale blue blouse and a white cotton skirt: frail clothes that you can’t quite see through but which still manage to give you an idea of the slim but womanly figure beneath. Her skin is tanned and clear, and her hair is shoulder-length, brown and full of body. Not curly exactly, or frizzy, but a kind of pleasing combination of the two, streaked through with patches of blonde where the sun seems to have bleached it. Her face is pretty, but not exceptionally so – although you can tell that if she was smiling she’d be very attractive indeed. It’s just one of those faces that lights up when it smiles and makes everything else seem somehow less important.

And ever so slowly, she gives you that smile.

She doesn’t need to, though: it’s there in her stance, and in the expression on her face. She’s completely at ease, and not in the least bit angry with you. Perhaps once upon a time she was, but she’s over that now. She’s looking at you as though she understands that you’re just another frail human being, exactly the same as her. You’re not perfect, but it’s not something she blames you for. It’s not something that’s your fault.

It breaks your heart that you can’t go over and hold her, but the fact is that you can’t. Not anymore. That’s not why you’re here.

She mouths the words I love you, and you look away for a second, but then you force yourself to look back. She has this sad-happy smile on her face. You can tell that she means it.

And after a moment, you smile back.