She walked into rooms like a great fantasy. Her chin lifted so that she might view you in the same sight as a queen, she passes by the peasants with the knowledge of the whole world. Black eyes, colored by some inspired gods, met her hair like a reflection in a silver glass. Men and women attempted to possess her with a creative name, vied with each other and her alike. “Sugar,” “Darling,” “My dear,” “Lovely,” it all infuriated her, yet no such signal revealed itself in any mortal language. She conquered them all with a glance, a smile so faint, and so breathtakingly regal, that they apologized immediately with a bow and a seat. People crowded like the last Disciples as if to witness the aura reflected by the chandelier around her slender figure. Few brave souls passed with some kind of witty remarks that might churn a great banter.

A proud atheist all my life, in the moment I caught her sight, I devoted my life to God. Perhaps it was because she allowed me more than just a glance, the black in them shrouded by a burst of golden light. Her face, dark and olive, churned with rouge and revealed the girlish innocence she could no longer hide from me. The beauty, of her awareness and depth, of her aloft slender figure, for which she was blessed with a household name, became transparent, and like the air that passed between us, fell still. A blushing, virgin bride, with whom I fell in love, and with our met gazes, she did as well. Only when I stepped closer did a ring on her hand reveal itself so clearly, that the desperation read from her lips like an unfortunate love story. Her fiancé in another room, with him a woman, like his to-be wife, he had bought and paid for, yet she fell humble and silent as if he stood over her. Apologizing with a rare dip of her head, one would become befuddled, head locked as they determined whether or not this was a clever prank for the susceptible. The tragedy she had become, diamond earrings, custom gown, though she had hopelessly lived with no brush of poverty, became an overwhelmingly cruel sight to anyone more than a passerby.  No suspicious bruises on her face, no cuts covered by powder, in sight but the lovely golden eyes painted by some flicker of passion—long gone, they might have been—that I could no longer see.