Dangerous

He saw her first in one of the indistinguishably unique, tiny, snake-like lanes of the indistinguishably unique small town of his birth. It was a sunny, dusty day and she looked far from charming with her sweat-drenched face and an expression of marked hostility. Yet he could not pull his eyes away from her. She looked dangerous in a very domestic way. And he had always been drawn to danger.

Their eyes had met and she had made a hole in his face with her scorching eyes. And then she disappeared, ducking into the black of a dingy room. He had known it was not the right time to follow her. Later that night, he had cursed himself for hours for not running after her.

He saw her a second time. As an angel this time, dancing with many children and many men. He saw her at a wedding. She was beautiful and he hated her smile, her shiny hair, her white perfection. He stared and stared at her, hoping against hope to see the wildcat that her soul was. And then like a sign from the heavens, she had twisted her ankle, fallen and cursed like the coarsest of working men. How he had wanted her then. Wanted her to fight his arms, scratch him, to spew venom. He had found out everything about her, everything except her name. He couldn't dare to kill the magic. His stupid self-created illusion.

The third time he saw her, he had ordered her to marry him. The tiredness of her prompt acceptance had scared him. Scared him badly but also exhilarated him. He'd always been a fool.

Twenty years have passed. He couldn't have guessed he would have ended up like this. So alone, and much less of a man, much less of a person. The sparkle in his eyes has gone, along with his insane ideas about life and love, along with his recklessness and spirit. He has nothing new to say, nothing new to feel. He has indeed become a boring man. Boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. It hurts. It's hilarious. His life is, each day.

Twenty years have passed. As she cooks in the kitchen for their second grandchild, humming in her absent way, he realizes she has never existed. She has consciously kept herself away from his world, from feeling, from laughing, from crying. She wasn't human. She was much more dangerous than he had ever imagined. She had extended her moonbeam fingers and turned him into a sorry figure, half-human half-ghost.

Twenty years have passed and he still hasn't found any words to say to her. And never will.