I have described your eyes, but have I seen their sight? Have I watched them watch, held what they’ve held? Once, yes. We were biking to the Montreal waters, to be soaked by the sun. A train was passing. Giant curves of fibreglass and metal from a windmill yet to be constructed trailed along the track, gliding among the noise. You were smitten – indeed, there are giants still to be seen, worlds to discover and explore. Your eyes fell upon each windmill limb as though they had no right to be there, as though you were wrapped up in some great wonder that to capture, to witness, could ruin the magic.
The beams stretched to another, overlapping white waves of human ingenuity. They swept the world around them. Clean, that’s what they were foremost. A pureness as if the air rarefied into them, as if there was a recent snow just at the right proportion, angle, and intention. They cut the sky harmlessly, gently.
You moved in quiet enjoyment. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?”
I had. I was in Amsterdam and my friend and I went to see a windmill being put up. We took a train. The summer baked the tram. Heat gave way to heat. Halfway there, fully drained of energy, the conductor told us in English better than our own that the windmill was cancelled. We asked why. He told us that there had been an accident, and at the right time, he told us to look out our window, and along the Netherlands countryside a wrought apocalypse bit into the land. What was white before now was a twisted brown. A carcass of teethy metal and earthy blood exposed itself recklessly. The metal frame of a single propeller stuck out of a green hill like a bent knife that had finally forced its way through its target. The wind played with the dangling scrap. The teeter sounded like a laugh.
You laughed that bountiful, life-giving laugh. “Kacper, this is beautiful.”
I was stuck gazing at your grace, at how the sunlight dips around your gravity, at how you appear to be dripping in honey, at how you seem to be at one with the clouds, if not the entire sky, at your fragile, marvelous expression, at how you do not appear to have a single bad thing about you – no hair out of place, no stain on your clothes, at how even if you did have some small thing misplaced you would remain strikingly sensational, at how you are painfully hot with your face soft and inviting, your arms delicate and strong, your breasts hinting at every dream by every man and woman alike, at how you could make a priest reverse their vows and a sinner to take to the church, at how you are the most beautiful girl on this street – maybe the world – and you don’t know it.
“I am so happy to see this with you,” you said with a voice that was packed with money.
I looked back at the propellers whizzing by. There was some mud spotted on a few of them. Small dots that were nearly imperceptible. And what of the other side?
You held my hand just as they were finishing. I closed my eyes, happily.
Yours yours yours,