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Another quiet afternoon in the park (standard:drama, 0 words)
Author: Robin WyersAdded: Jul 03 2001Views/Reads: 2230/1435Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A slightly shady narrator waits on a bench, admiring a musical performance in a local park. His eyes are firmly focused upon the object of his desire. But does the nymphet of his imagination become aware of her secret admirer's lust?
 



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Any release from the cutting and chopping and dissecting of living 
beings - or her, any substitution of some creativity for the on-going 
destruction - or her. But can there really be no escape? Does the 
circle really  have no gap? 

She looked at me again! Until now, love had always been oblivious from
my nine to six life. If only I had met her, or her equivalent at that 
age (if such a goddess could have existed) if only the meaning of my 
life, my destiny had been presented to me then. Her strawberry blonde 
hair glistens in the late spring sunshine as her misty blue eyes draw 
downward circles, reading her music and lighting up the entire 
bandstand with her misty, mystifying glance. Her naked legs, so white, 
seemed to call me, partly obscured by her lyre but still as inviting 
and every time she turns a sheet of music I may catch a quick glance up 
her dark-blue skirt. And every time she throws back her shoulder length 
hair, signals seem to light up within every cell of my ageing  body. 
Her breasts are small, but so is she and would grow but pray not too 
much. Yes, stop right ther! Of course she’s not the only girl on show 
and far from the only one of note. In fact it’s probably advisable that 
I don’t describe what I would actually love to engage in with the girl 
bearing a trumpet, two to her left, should this ‘fictional’ manuscript 
ever be found and used as evidence against me. But the other four girls 
just seem to be missing that extra sparkle that seperates the 
attractive from the dazzling, the nice from the mesmerising. Yes, for 
me there can be only one - one escape, one saviour, one haven. 

It´s mostly her glance. Her eyes seem to suggest a paved path to a
better life, a better existence, a gateway to freedom. Her sweet music, 
now Bach, with its sometimes simple progression, seems to lead me 
there. Everyone else, pocketed around one of the city´s many public 
parks also seem attentive to her every move, as she dazzles into a 
dizzying flute solo, although presumably simply in admiration and 
respect rather then secret obsession. She smiles. Perhaps she loves 
being the centre of attention, perhaps she adores being immortalised in 
my descriptions of her. Can she never get enough attention? Or is she 
simply disguising her dominance under the illusion of a game? 

The lady who had been sitting beside me now arises as the five young
girls stand up and take a bow to more applause. Stunning. I let out a 
quiet sigh, in the knowledge that a new week is on the horizon, the 
same new problems, the same new hazards greet me and I must remain in a 
lock of silence for yet another seventy days, counting down the hours 
till my next afternoon lost in a utopia of musical bliss. “Well done 
Helen”, the lady says tenderly, as she leads what is now apparently her 
daughter back to her car “I admit to finding two or three faults and a 
little work must be done in order to rectify those mistakes, if you’d 
just put in a little more effort I think you could manage. Anyway don’t 
worry about your performance too much - just look on the bright side - 
there’s always next Sunday”. 

As the scattered spectators leave - back to their suburban houses, their
families, their secure jobs and return to their life - I remain seated, 
still in awe, following my obsession´s every move into her mothers 
mercedes. I think about following her, I think about it again. I think 
about getting into my battered down Ford Fiesta and following them on 
my quest for serenity, but I can’t. No, for me the anticipation of 
Godot´s arrival will have to stay in postponement for yet another week 
- still there´s always next Sunday! 


   


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