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A Maverick and a Dame
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A Maverick and a Dame sit on bench in Central Park.
He's thinking about his parents; the distant father that failed him, the mother that was so strong in the face of her infirmities, trying to find someone to blame for feelings of alienation from society that fill him.
Irritated by everything, dark thoughts seem to be emanating from the cigarette flickering in his mouth, working their way into his head.
For a moment the Maverick wonders whether Ishmael found the peace of mind that escaped him these tender years as his pink AG 3240ii special flew off Toraidhean's promontory, killing him.
Stifled by the leather of his maroon jacket, those thoughts are thankfully turned away. But even as he takes it off, his subconscious remains adrift on the grief-stricken sea upon which it floats with his deceased friend.
With eyes that are wounded by all this upheaval, he studies her dark curls.
There he finds a relief nothing else has managed to give lately. This reaction she inspires is like some narcotic distracting him from an ever increasing horror.
Somewhat distressed by Ishmael's death, her emotions stray into melancholy. The Dame lays her head softly against his thigh and glares into the distance.
It's too sudden, the cherished feeling she experiences alongside this maverick and gradually she's overwhelmed by the dilemma of the deaths facing them both.
Eventually this mix of passions would somehow channel a perverse mirage of forgetfulness through her.
Gratefully she lost herself in his embrace for a time.
The distinctive attribute to her eyes are the qualities he knows they seek most.
A broken spirit, a tortured soul, they value things most don't.
They are cobalt, reminiscent of waters in a sun kissed tropical lagoon.
Staring into them with surprise he loses himself and swoons.
Their sentimental form tells a tale of a higher love.
An afflicted bird saw the Son's radiance in them and metamorphosed into a dove.
The dream lady.
The pool he dreamt of is a spirit of divine craftsmanship, the very image of Gesu.
That drop's slowed cadence as it fell into the water whispered the glory of His majesty, discovered to its fullest extent in the eternal life.
The Dame is Jesus's pool. Like a flood she overflows her banks, sweeping Maverick away, submerging him even in this life.
Streams flow in the desert, Cary's dry ground has become an Oasis.
Here you are, a matchless knight. Elegant in a 1950s coatdress, she lays a ruby amulet from a faraway land upon your chest. Forever; Sweet was the assurance from the Peer of the realm as he proclaimed you'll both spend it with her.
Heaven, a realm so near actually.
They're in the north. Vast fields of ice glitter underneath a full moon. In the distance glacial peaks tower adoringly into a purple blue sky, bearing witness to them both of an unearthly agency at work in these flats.
Each breath of air quickens their lungs, indeed their bodies all-inclusively.
The untainted solitude of their surroundings is comforting. They slip into a meditative state in spite of a powerful consciousness of each other. Blissful for they dwell on breathtaking things, soothing for the renewal this purposefully brings.
Dreamily these elements blend together in an Arabian night gone white.
She's been transformed most gloriously, there's magnetism to Lois's sparkling eyes Cary can't be drawn from now. It exudes from every part of her as she wraps her arms around his neck.
The northern lights begin their waltz. A marvel just for them, from the Morning Star. Apathy's gone. Empathy has come over him instead, much needed and gratefully received. This is a life whose substance is savored in all its splendidness.
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