Isabelle Ettienne

Her face is fair like that of fine white porcelain. Her skin is so pale that it  reflects the light that is reflecting off the moon on clear nights. Her brown tawny hair once was long enough to rest on her shoulders and reach down her back until she cut it short last spring. Now her hair is rough in design cropping close to her ears and neck, but still soft with the feel of golden feathers. Her eyes are clear, which reminds me of a Kestrel I once saw, trapped by its thong thrashing for freedom. Eyes that are quick and sharp that look everywhere at once until they settle on her chosen prey, then their still and focused. She watches you with her whole body focused for the moment of truth. She hold her mouth thin against her face as if trying to hide a smile and the cool color of her lips.

She runs through my memory, always in soft down shirts made of subdued white and yellow cottons, tied at the waist with a belt of leather, her leggings are black as if a background to what she is wearing. Her boots when I see them are light brown and gray like the fur of a rabbit’s hide. She is a long way from the gilded ballrooms and multilayered dresses of silk and petticoats. She is laughing as she runs after some game of her own devising.

Her smile is white with the slightest hint of yellow stains of drinking too much tea. Her lips now revealed are dark slashes on her face like brush strokes of paint driven red from blood brought forth from her excitement. The mists of breath pour out from her nose and mouth as she pauses to collect herself. Her nose, which she never cared for is straight and long enough to give the impression of a line from eyes to lips. She catches me staring at her and turns on heel to dash away. Then she stops and her head drops as twilight pushes back the dimness of our dreams and shadows appearing to redefine her details.

            Now her womanhood has returned and her breasts confirm it by casting shadows on her cotton shirt. She places her hands on her hips and looks back at me. I paint a lame smile on my face and shrug, saying-

“Tomorrow night is another day away.”

Her smile returns but not as joyful as it once was, the ends of her mouth do not climb the cliffs of her porcelain cheeks. The dimple in her chin remains hidden. Her eyes look up at me then are downcast at my feet and again I am reminded of the Kestrel as it surrenders to its hood.

“Tomorrow night then?”

            I nod. She walks away moving through the wet grass, graceful like the glide of a swan on a rippling lake.