250 Words: Eye of the beholder

I can remember the days of long hair and those of spikes.  I can remember the Thomas the Tank Engine clothes (especially the red “Peep Peep” jumper and the t-shirt and shorts combination), that checked hooded top with poppers and a grey hood that I did the Alien impression thing with (though I hadn’t seen the film at the time), the denim jacket and those weird trousers we bought in Peru.  Until fixing on plain and simple combinations (and the occasional band t-shirt).

I can remember days in mountainous and relatively flat countries of various colours and contrasts, seeing choppy seas, gentle streams and great wide rivers lined by either buildings of great import or willow trees dipping their fingers into the cool running waters.  And seeing equal beauty in each and every scene.

And I remember days of roving from one face to another, from body to body, checking out eyes, hair, mouths and skin, taking each in and smiling at what I saw, sometimes handing it on to the old memory banks.  Even if no one else did.

Until that day, at some point after I had first picked out the woman from down the steps (one of those in the offices that used to be ours), when he finally started to talk to her and make things happen,  when what lies behind me and below me fixed my settings to see only her.  To see beauty elsewhere and not care because the beholder had found someone special.