So Warm

So Warm

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       As the windows turn from a deep black to a soft blue color, I look at her. The sun will be up soon, and I want so much to see her eyes. I won't wake her up, though. She looks too exquisite as she sleeps. She looks just as she is in her sleep. Beautiful, powerful, normal. I often wonder what it's like to be normal. More times than I have wondered about anything else. That's not to say I want to be normal, but knowing what it's like would help me to understand everyone else. It would help me to understand her. My love.
       The woman before me is astonishing. She is without a doubt the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen with my own eyes, not to mention the most breathtaking I've ever had the pleasure of talking to, knowing, holding, touching. She's so beautiful it defies reason. More beautiful than the ones before her, that much is certain. I think it was her beauty that called to me first, everything else only added to my already growing love for her. One before her had more intelligence that I could ever hope for, one not long ago had the most amazing talent in the way of painting, another one had wealth beyond even my own comprehension, one had the kindest heart you could ever hope to find in a human being, and yet another was somewhat of a kindred spirit, something I didn't think was possible. I do believe that at one time, she could have been considered my friend. She wasn't normal either. She was my first.
       They each had something I considered attractive, in one way or another. But this woman, this beautiful woman who lies next to me now, she is a culmination of the others. She embodies everything I have ever wanted in a woman. She is lovely, intelligent, talented, wealthy, full of life, sincere, respectable, honest, and she understands me. I didn't think that anyone else could understand me. I thought my first was also the last woman who could ever see into my eyes and understand what she saw, but I was wrong. I don't see things as most people do, and this woman now can see that. And I love her for it.
       She was definitely the most difficult to approach. In the dark room of the theatre, she was the only light. I admit it is futile to attempt to describe her beauty, but I will try in spite of myself.
       I hadn't planned on meeting anyone, but that didn't mean I would pass up an opportunity. I walked in and approached my seat, anxiously awaiting the performance to begin. I'm not what most would consider a man of culture, having no real desire to overly indulge myself in what most would consider culturally enriching events. When it comes to music, I can be found in a nice jazz club or quiet bar, listening to music similar to what is playing now. I have an affinity for leading pianos, soft vocals, and the slightest bit of drums to add a nice beat to the music. But I also have a soft spot for the great Frederic Chopin. His piano compositions move me as if they were the ocean and I were lost in the rushing tide. I had gone to hear a prominent pianist attempt to recreate the magic of Chopin's work. This is where I saw her.
       She was overdressed for the occasion, yet she carried herself in such a way that made her attire seem all too appropriate. She wore a dark crimson dress, so deeply rich in red that it can only be likened to the hue of blood. Tall black heels accented and elongated her smooth legs. The dress began just above her knees and stopped a few inches below her collarbone. Two thin straps ran across her shoulders, and the back hung evenly just below her shoulder blades while the front dipped slightly, revealing only a hint of what lies underneath. I smiled slightly at how she could look so wonderful and yet dress with such class.
       It vaguely registered in my mind that I had stopped walking just to admire her, but I was too busy doing so to notice anything else. No necklace adorned her white neck, and the only jewelry I could see were the small earrings she wore and a ring on her right hand. I smiled again at the thought that she was not married. Her hair was the same as mine, blacker than night and just as straight. She had it up, but it was obviously a great length. She was average height for a woman I only assumed was close to my age, for she looked young and alive. I imagine I looked young as well, but no where near as full of life as she. Her slim body and long legs screamed nothing short of perfection to my eyes. Her face was as creamy white as the rest of her skin, and her lips a lighter shade of red than her dress. I could not yet tell anything about her eyes.
       She was talking to another man, a date perhaps, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. I noticed she didn't carry a purse or a bag. Perhaps her date carried everything they needed for the night with him. I was still lost in thought about her when she looked over at me, catching my eyes and trapping them in her gaze. I think I must have stopped breathing when she did so. It was then that I could tell her eyes were a brilliant green, so much brigher than my dull, icy blue. They seemed to have a glow to them, as if they generated their own light. I expected her to look back at her date, he was still talking to her, but she held my gaze. I wouldn't dare look away, and I don't think I could have if I tried. After a moment, she smiled ever so slightly at me and turned her attention back to the man with whom she was conversing. Did she wink at me? I didn't quite know, and I still don't. It somehow would have tainted the magic of the moment we shared, had I known without any doubt if she had or not.
       After she released my eyes, I began walking to my seat again. I had to pass both her and the man she was with in order to reach my destination, and my heart sped its pace at the thought of being closer to her. The aisles were narrow, and as I approached, she looked at me again. She took the arm of her man and motioned him to move to one side to allow me passage.
       "Excuse me," I remember saying. I gently placed a hand on her exposed arm, an ordinary gesture as I passed her. So warm.
       "You are excused."
       Her response was one I had not heard before in such a context. Most responses would have included a 'certainly' or an 'of course', perhaps even a casual 'sure'. But not my love. She was so proper. She caught my eye again and smiled as she said it. Her chillingly sultry voice did nothing but make me wonder what my name might sound like on her lips.
       My seat was only two rows down from where she was standing. I could do nothing but listen to her speak. I idly wondered why they did not sit and speak, and then hoped that they wouldn't so that I could continue to admire the angelic sounds emanating from her throat.
       "Yes, I am quite fanatic about Chopin and his work. I read that there will be a cello along with the piano for some pieces tonight. If he plays Baracolle in F sharp major, I will leave happy. I also love Dwojaki koniec in D minor, although I doubt there will be any accompanying vocalists on any of the pieces. Death's Divisions they call it. It is a truly beautiful piece. I have dreamt of singing it in a place like this one day." I couldn't help but smile again as I heard her speak about her love and knowledge of Chopin, a man whose work I know and love. I tried to imagine how she would look on stage, singing Chopin to me. Then I heard her question him. "Do you listen to Chopin much?"
       "Oh yes, he's one of my favorites. I especially love his Toccata and Fugue in D minor." The fool.
       I couldn't help but let out an audible chuckle as he spoke. Just as I did, I heard her do the same. Oops. She had heard me. Our eyes met and we were both smiling, symptoms of our mutual chuckling. Her eyes seemed to linger on me for a short second, looking almost surprised. She quickly looked back at the misinformed music lover and I continued to watch.
       "Actually, Toccata and Fugue was composed by Johann Sebastian Bach."
       Even while her back was turned to me, I could tell she was smiling, no doubt feeling sympathetic as his pathetic excuse to make conversation. How could she possibly have such poor taste in men? He noticeably flushed, and shot a quick look at me. Apparently, he had heard me laugh as well. She caught his look and saved him from further embarrassment.
       "Well, I think the concert will be starting soon. I should take my seat. It was very nice talking to you, though." Ah, so she wasn't with him. Thank God. What kind of idiot attends a concert of Chopin's work without even knowing about any of his pieces?
       She held her hand out to shake his. He took it in his own, but instead of shaking he brought it up to his lips and gently kissed it. I'm positive that he looked at me for fraction of a second as he did this. 'You already blew it, just accept defeat like a man.' Not the nicest thoughts for him, but what can I say. I couldn't help but be jealous.
       "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you."
       She took back her hand as he walked off and turned to me. I didn't anticipate her attention, and thus quickly turned towards the stage. I knew she had seen me, but I didn't want to have to face her knowing that she knew I had been watching her. Imagine my surprise as she walked up and stood right next to me.

       I slowly looked up, wondering why on earth she was standing beside me. She was smiling again, an amused smile I think. I looked up at her, silently questioning. Once again, I was lost in her beauty. Just the movement of her lips as she spoke was enough to mesmorize me. Then I realized I had completely missed what she had said.
       "I'm sorry?"
       "I said would you mind standing? My seat is on this row." Her smile grew more amused as she asked me to move. Now I was the fool. I absently wondered if she always had men falling all over themselves around her.
       "Oh! I'm sorry. Of course. Not at all." Not only was I practically incapacitated, I was losing the ability to speak. Considering who I am, this was quite a shock even to myself.
       I stood and motioned for her to pass me. She took my hand in hers to steady herself as she passed, and brushed her hair just passed my nose. I wouldn't know what exactly the smell was, some flower most likely, but if I had to assign a color to it, I would say it was lavender. Had I been a cat, I could have easily called it catnip. Perfume also invaded my senses as she stepped passed me and took her seat. Something clean. And electric. I instantly wanted to buy her another bottle of whatever it was.
       She settled herself and I did the same. I could feel her eyes on me and turned to look at her. She wore a smirk instead of a smile this time. I couldn't help but smile back at her, wondering what she was thinking. She began speaking before I even had a chance to think of what to say.
       "We shouldn't have laughed, you know."
       I just blinked, not knowing what to say. It isn't every day that the most beautiful woman in the world strikes a conversation with you as if you've known each other for years.
       "It was an honest mistake. Not everyone who comes to these things knows everything about Chopin. I have to admit that while I went to a Vivaldi concert last year, I didn't know a thing about him."
       I suppose she could tell that I was at a loss for words, and was about to start up what I'm sure would have been a normal conversation, but I liked what she had started better. I decided to keep it abnormal.
       "If he didn't know about Chopin, he should have let that be known instead of trying to fake knowledge about him. It is better to stay silent and appear to be a fool than to open your mouth and prove it." She genuinely laughed at that one. It was my turn to smirk.
       "Ah, a fan of satiric proverbs, are you? Well, what about this one: "Old age is inevitable; growing up is optional.'"
       "Ok, ok, you win. I am being immature."
       "Yes, well, hindsight is often 20/20." I shot her a playfully angry smile. Then again, to hear her speak, I didn't care if she was making fun of him or me. I wouldn't let him off so easily though.
       "You have to admit, though, that he only made a fool out of himself in order to impress you. Well, to try to impress you anyway. I suppose being intellectual just isn't his forte."
       "There's nothing wrong with trying to look good in front of someone," she countered.
       "Yes, but he was trying to impress a beautiful woman with knowledge he didn't have." She looked down and blushed slightly at my compliment. I smiled down at her.
       "Well, perhaps when I was talking, I was just trying to impress a beautiful man."
       "But if he knew nothing of Chopin, how could you possibly impress him?"
       "I wasn't talking about him."
       It was my turn to blush. I looked at the stage again, and couldn't help but smile. The most beautiful woman in the world just said she thought I was handsome. I was speechless to say the least.
       She put her small hand on my arm. How I wished at that moment she would have touched my hand, I wanted to feel her skin on mine, to feel the electricity flow from her body into my own.
       "I think it's starting."
       Throughout the first half of the performance, not once did her hand leave my arm. Besides the occasional twitch of her fingers, there was no movement between the two of us. I did want to reach and take her hand in my own, but I was so afraid she would reject the contact. I decided to let her continue to be the agressor. She was doing so well at it already.
       The intermission came all too soon. She withdrew her hand and stood, and I instantly missed the contact. The entire night I could never have imagined was going so smoothly, and I didn't want to part from her for even a moment.
      "I'm going to go powder my nose."
      Everything about her was so very old-fashioned, so proper, even her way of announcing that she was going to the bathroom.
      I stood again and moved into the aisle, as we were right on the end of the row, to allow her through. She was about to turn to walk, when she turned to me instead and put her hand back on my arm. The same place, at the junction of my forearm and bicep.
      "Do you happen to know where it is?"
      "Yes, I do. Would you like an escort?" I decided to be bold for once and held out the arm she already had a grasp of. She intertwined her arm with my own and once again, smiled so purely at me.
      "I would love an escort. Do you know where I can find one?"
      She giggled softly and hugged my arm tighter. I found her teasing more enjoyable than I thought teasing could be. Perhaps it was the combination of her voice and her hold on my arm that made it enjoyable. Anything that voice asked me to do, I would have done it.
      We returned to our seats a few minutes before the intermission was over. She released my arm to sit down, and she watched me as I took my seat next to her. I put my arm back on the arm rest, hoping that her hand would resume its previous position. It did not. Instead, she stared at my hand with an unreadable intensity. I looked at it, expecting to find something wrong, but I found nothing. I looked back at her to try to understand what she found so interesting about my worn hand.
      It was then that I decided she understood me, even if she didn't know exactly what she understood. Maybe it was a subconscious connection, who knows.
      She reached out and took my hand in both of hers. They were soft, so warm, creamy white, and inquisitive. She explored every curve and line of my hand with hers, and I allowed her to do so. My heart was practically singing as she continued to look for some unseen detail or answer to a question.
      She brought my hand closer to her face, and I could feel her breath on my skin. Warmth again. I didn't know what she was looking for, or what she saw, and at some point I ceased to care. Her fingers curled around my own, gently passed over my palm, came around and stretched over the back of my hand, started their explorations all over again. She stopped moving and looked from my hand to my eyes, and back again several times. She finally decided to let her green eyes blaze into my blue ones. I felt as though she could see everything I was through my eyes just then, and perhaps she could.
      "There's something about your hands, I can't quite put my finger on it."
      We both laughed at her choice of words. She then placed a warm hand on my cheek and pulled me closer to her. I felt no more fear, because I knew she understood what she saw.
      "You're different, aren't you..."
      I couldn't understand how she could know so much about me, but she did. She knew everything. She could see my deepest thoughts, my hands covered in red, my darkest secrets, my other women, my love for her; she could see me.
      "Yes."
      She smiled at my confession, and I knew everything would be fine. She entwined her arm around mine again and laced her fingers into my callused hand. She leaned into my shoulder and waited for the concert to continue. I gently squeezed her hand with my own and listened to some of Chopin's greatest work.
       I decided then that I would not treat her like the others. I handled them with care, but never with love. She deserved love, as much of it as I could give. She was special, and for the first time in my life, I wished that I could be like her. That I could be normal.
      After the concert, we took a stroll through the park. We both agreed that it was more beautiful at night. No people, no distractions, just the beauty of the trees, the lake, the moonlight. It was here that I discovered that she was a culmination of the other women. I needed no reassurance of how beautiful she is, through our talks I discovered that she is not only well-educated but wise as well, her conduct with the man from the concert attested to her kind heart, she is a successful and wealthy intellectual property attorney, and when I asked her to sing for me, I could instantly see and hear her abundant talent in music. And most importantly, she could see me for who I really was, for who I am.
      I was the first to tell her how late it was getting, and that I should probably get her back to her apartment. We took a cab, and surprisingly enough, she lived in a house just outside of the city. Trees surrounded her property and kept it well-hidden from the road that lead to it. It was beautiful, exactly the kind of dwelling I knew her capable of designing and bringing to reality.
      I walked her to her door and tried to find some way of asking to see her again. Again, she spoke before I could even find the words.
      "Would you like to come in?"
      I practically fell over at the invitation. The most beautiful woman in the world was asking me inside her beautiful house. Do I really need to describe my facial expression? She decided to continue her teasing.
      "Don't worry, I won't try anything. I want to play some Chopin for you. There were some pieces that weren't played tonight that I'd like you to hear."
      It took great effort to move again after such a shocking request from her. I managed to pull it together, somewhat.
      "I would like nothing better."
      She played Chopin, alright, and she sang Dwojaki koniec in D minor, just as she had wanted to do. It was all very beautiful. Then she played an old Miles Davis song, "Bluing", and mimicked Walter Bishop, Jr.'s piano playing with her talented fingers, making it so sultry and mellow, almost enchanting. I wondered how such a perfect being happened on me as she did. Did she see my love of jazz in my eyes as well?
      After she saw me staring at her while she played, she decided to join me on the couch. On her way to me, she put on some music, particularly the song playing now. It is a cover of "When the Levee Breaks" by Led Zeppelin, the song performed here by A Perfect Circle. Who knew that such a band could produce music that I would enjoy listening to?
      She turned on this song to repeat and came over to sit next to me. She again studied and scrutinized my hand. She had seen me. She knew what my hand had done, and yet she still held it to her face, coxing me to stroke her with it.
      "I know about the others." I knew what she meant.
      She saw how I had strangled the last girl with a piano chord. She too played Chopin for me, but she could not sing. She was as intelligent as they come, working as a heart surgeon at the hospital downtown. I had met her at a coffee bar, and she was lonely. She wanted my body more than anything. I would never desecrate the woman that stood before me in such a way. Her classic beauty must never be tainted outside the bonds of marriage. No, the surgeon was not worthy of my body, or my love. She was, however, worthy of death. And she was so beautiful when she encountered it.
      She saw how I had drowned the artist in her own paint. I had met her in the park. She wanted someone to appreciate her unique ideas and how she expressed them. I was all too willing. In the end, she wasn't good enough. I tried to make her beautiful, I tried to make her a part of her own art, but she was not worthy. I painted her to look more like how I saw her. Red.
      She saw how I stabbed the actress with the screwdriver, how I broke the nurse's neck, how I beat my best friend with her brother's aluminum bat. She saw everything, and yet she understood why. She was at peace with all of it, and with me. She was a normal girl who loved an abnormal boy. I tried to find the words to convey how much she meant to me.
      "You are so perfect. More beautiful than the others could ever have been. You are worthy."
She came closer to me and leaned into me yet again, holding my gaze with hers.
      "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

      No one had ever told me I was beautiful before her. I had never thought I was beautiful, or that I could ever be, but when she said it, I knew it was true. And I knew that I would be hers forever.
      Before I could respond, she leaned in even closer and kissed me. So warm. It was slow and smooth, just like the music playing. I barely knew what to do as her lips moved against mine. Before I could comprehend what was going on, I felt cold cover my lips again. I opened my eyes to see her smiling at me. She moved her skirt up to her mid-thigh to reveal a garter, one that secured a small pouch turned to the inside of her leg. 'So that's why there was no purse,' I mused. She slipped it off and discarded it, forgotten, on the floor. Then she reached up and let her hair down. I was taken aback at how much her hair added to her face. I didn't know how much more of her beauty I could take before I would simply burst. It was so long and black. It must have reached the seat of the couch even when she was sitting at attention.
      It was my turn to be the agressor for once. I brought my hand to her face. She put her hand over mine and pressed it harder onto her cheek. She closed her eyes and nuzzled my palm. What she said I still can't believe.
      "You are so beautiful I can hardly breathe."
      Before another word could be spoken, I claimed her lips in a passionate kiss. My hands found their way onto her small waist and in her dark locks of neverending midnight. Her hands scanned my shoulders and came to rest in my dark hair. We embraced for several minutes before we pulled apart for air. I could tell she was tired, as was I. The music was lulling us to sleep as well, so I laid us both lengthwise on the couch.
      "I love you," I whisper to her sensitive ear. She grabs my hand and drapes it over her waist before wrapping her fingers around my own."I'm not worthy."
      I tighten my fingers around hers to assure her how wrong she is.
"But, I love you, too."
       And we slept.
      The sun is just about to rise as I finish remembering everything that happened the night before. I feel her stir next to me, and I resign myself to try to get a bit more sleep. She squeezes my hand just before climbing out of my arms. I am too exhausted to follow wherever she is going. She knows this. I do hope she comes back soon, though...
      I hear her walk back to the couch and sit next to me, but I keep my eyes closed. Surely she knows how tired--
      My thoughts are completely halted as I feel a sharp pain, and something intruding in my stomach. My eyes fly open and I look down. The hilt and backend of a large survival knife are jutting from my lower abdomen, and blood covers most of it, as well as the couch. My blood, the same color as her dress. Her hand is still on the hilt of the knife, and a tear escapes one of her glowing, green eyes.
      The pain, as well as my fate, are beginning to register in my mind. She looks at me not with a smile, but a look that conveys her emotion towards me, her love for me. But I am at a loss. Isn't she normal? Is this what normal people do?
      "Why?" I manage to ask before the cold and numbness begin to set in. My vision blurs slightly.
      "Because you are so beautiful. So beautiful. The world does not deserve your beauty, and neither do I. I am not worthy."
      I try to disagree with her. Does she not know how perfect she is? How beautiful? How worthy?? But my voice has left me, I can hardly let out a grunt as she removes the knife in one, quick motion.
      "I am not worthy, but you are."
      She puts the knife up to her mouth and licks my blood off. She looks back at me and discards the knife, much like the garter from the night before.
      "I love you."
      She kisses me again, soft, slow, smooth, just like the music that is still playing. I feel moisture on her lips. I know it is my blood.
      She pulls away and straddles my hips. She looks at the wound she caused. I look at her hand that is now covered with blood. She reminds me so much of myself. Perhaps she is not normal after all. Perhaps no one is. I know it now, that she is the other half of me, the half I was looking for in those women but never found. I am hers, and she is mine. Forever.
      She leans closer to me and places her left hand on my stomach and presses. After a moment, she pulls her hand back and examines the blood that is now covering it. Her looking down on me with so much love and devotion is the last thing I see before blackness. I hear her utter the words I know so well.
      "So warm..."