Our eyes met across a crowded pool, and there was magic in the air. Well, technically, I’m not sure our eyes met as much as bumped into each other, muttered a quick “excuse me”, and moved on. And the “magic in the air” may have just been the scent of suntan lotion mixed with Axe body spray and beer belches… but this is my memory, and I’ll cherish it as I please.

Her smile was a radiant thing, an incandescent display of lips and teeth that could burn the shadows from the darkest corners of a really dark place. A bolt of lightning that made the air around her crackle like a Doritos package in a quiet library.

She moved her body with serpentine grace, her hips and shoulders seeming to operate independent of her other interesting bits. Her movements transcended the relative cacophony of the speaker system to write a music of their own, a sensual symphony complete with Parental Advisory sticker.

Oh, and she had a sweet, sweet ass. Seriously, look at the thing. Damn.

Alas, our moment was never meant to be more that that. We parted without the barbarity of words to trample the gentle field of our grace-borne passion, instead choosing to preserve this sliver of eternity in the frame of a camera’s quiet gaze.

Farewell, my precious. My dove.

(This entry brought to you by the James Blunt School of Obsessive Hyper-Romanticism.)