You don’t see it like Me…

18 Jul

The glass cube atrium revealed a view across the library green.  Grass sodden, leaves renewed as though they had received a fresh injection of chlorophyll and tennis pitches glassy like the shimmer of grey seal-skin.  Her dress had applique flowers attached to it and her back was bronzed and strong.  She stood in the corner of the illuminated room, clasped both hands across her backside and stood, face tilted towards the sky.  Every now and then she let out a loose breath as if to say “everything is okay…”

A smart man with white hair and milky-white slacks walked over to the mirror-image corner and surveyed his view.  At first, it appeared he was absorbing the exact same image as the woman to his right.  Clouds tumbled inward and swept across the panorama, chasing their escaped dreams.  The man placed a veiny hand on the wooden ledge and smelled his fingers.  Even modern buildings have their glitches.  Perhaps, especially modern buildings.

She let out a gasp and smiled at nobody.  Her entire face seemed elated, as though she had been presented with something just for herself – as though the universe was picking her out from the crowd.

Dampness dripped down the glass panes and pooled in the gaps between the joints.  The man pulled himself up to a standing position and carried out restocking the bookshelves.

“A rainbow…”  The lady was still gazing out where the sun was leaving edges around the clouds – like sugar-paper torn at the periphery to leave an imperfect, white outline.

Sometimes, our hearts are so set on a certain way of viewing our world that we miss the moments that define us and destroy us.  We care so much for the fleeting beauty – we stop too long to take it in – that we are oblivious to the flimsiness and the temporary nature of the buildings we sit in, the vulnerable steps we take through our lives and the second that could change it all.

That evening, the rainbow stretched a perfect spectrum of colour across the post-climatic thunderstorm sky.  Not an illusion.  Not real.  But perfect – in its own, useless way.

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