Pretty As a Picture

It was a scene pretty as a picture. Bucolic and serene, the rolling waves in the distance were never meant to be reached, for where she stood could only be the place to be.

For me. Or anyone.

She was as lovely as her surroundings. She fit.

She was made in the same motif as the setting, her environs and herself animating this seaside Eden meant just for her. She was looking up to the sky, which hung low over her in cerulean, as you imagined the midday sun lighting her face just magnificently. Perfectly. Immaculately.

She was the type of girl who entering any room would make it stop. Thus, the whitecaps, wind-blown, suggested movement; yet, immobilized by her gaze, sat inert.

You could hear the songs the Earth conjured for her. Falsetto chirps syncopated with the beat of the hidden groundlings, lying in wait, invisibly at work.

You could smell the petrichor which abated in lieu of her own scent the closer you came to her. Evergreen, like the theme of her sundress, scooped posteriorly to reveal her lovely back, turned at you, hiding her face. You could imagine the lovely interplay of the gossamer fabric brushing her fair skin as the breeze tends to seduce any admirers—but it was a tease. You would never get to her. You could never have her.

Someone, somewhere, must have. Or will. So, you suffered in rejection.

Everything your eyes took in has set you up for a longing that could never be satisfied.

You could only step back to take it all in: the reality of the unreal, with the swirls of nature and wafts of olfaction that partnered with what your mind’s eye saw. It was a conspiracy of senses and it targeted you.

Yet, despite being denied, you were glad to be there, with her, to experience what she did. And what she was. You were only glad to be a part of it. If only it could last forever!

She had no idea that you could control her if you wanted. You could change her whole world. And if you couldn’t have her, perhaps no one should!

You had the power. Your unrequited love had tortured you to that point.

Now just look at what she made you do!

Suddenly, the sky darkened. A hot, desiccated wind blew through, toward the approaching storm, as if her loveliness were feeding a ravenous beast. Yet, she remained, still and unconcerned. She had found herself frozen in a wonderful moment and had chosen to stay there, despite the inclemency seeking her out.

You could only watch. Was it in horror or resolute vengeance?

The storm became menacing. A blackened sky descended down the vista as the incendiary discharges cracked above the whole scene, the sudden vaporization of air making crackling and popping thunder. The shore crystallized; the sea began to boil. Her whole world began to melt about her, the pitch-dark clouds dropping into the picture.

It was dark and steamy, and the only thing remaining was her glorious face—of beauty, of femininity, and of my personal denial. It morphed into a chiaroscuro, but even such a God-given construct cannot withstand what was meant for her.

I was to be denied no more!

The turpentine container lay on its side, dripping what was left onto the floor. The flames began to destroy me, too, my skin boiling like the sea had done, just a moment before, for her. Jealousy is a destructive accident of intellect, and can only be defused by the non-existence of the wrongly blamed.

The pigments and pastels, oils and mixed media, of all the paintings of all the women I could never have, now burned in the gallery room I had lit. And no vista, no perspective, no colors would be able to sift through the char I had created here. And neither can my soul rise from these ashes.