That’s when I saw her.
The dress she wore was a bright, rich red and shone in sharp contrast against the surrounding landscape. She sheltered herself with a bamboo umbrella and on her back carried a bundle swathed in burlap. She carried herself elegantly and cleanly, the only expression of life that dull morning.
You captivated me the instant I saw you.
But what you looked like, that is not important anymore. Only who you were matters.
I stood where I was in the street, unable to take my eyes off of her. She continued to walk and, without the slightest show of hesitation or interest, walked by as if I didn’t exist. Her umbrella shielded her eyes, but beneath it I could see her mouth and the faintest sign of a grin. Holding her umbrella steadily she walked through and left the town.
The next morning it rained as it had the previous day, and I walked the same route, my thoughts not on any one thing.
That’s when I saw her again.
The same actions were enacted out as if it were the same morning. She walked and shielded herself from the elements with her umbrella, and on her back was the same bundle. Again she just strode by, but this time I saw her eyes and together our gazes locked for a slight second.
These mornings continued for what seemed like eternity, but finally the rain let up and she disappeared along with it. Never had the two of us spoken a single word, yet I felt decimated by this loss. Those countless sightings of silent presence had become so much -- just the two of us in the world, aware of nothing else but each other.
When the rain stopped, people flooded out of their houses and buildings and the world came back into color. But I did not care. I only wanted to see her.
Years passed, and every morning when it rained I thought about her. I would walk into the empty street, and would look for her and her red dress, her dress that could never be missed in this drear, drenched landscape.
After enough time, any hope of seeing her again vanished from my soul, and walking out those rainy, empty mornings became just a habit – nothing more, nothing less.
Then one morning it rained particularly hard, and every drop on my face felt like a slap of admonition.
And that’s when I saw her.
Waves crashed against the small island, generating a roar that only intensified the current atmosphere. As rain poured down in torrential sheets and lightning cracked in the distance, two figures stood silhouetted against the chaos. They paid little heed to the elements threatening to overpower them, but saw only each other. The man had facial features like those of a hawk, and his very persona radiated the intensity of a born predator. His hair was short and his stance natural, despite the strength of the wind that constantly whipped against him and his coat, his calmness frightening. Both of his claw-like hands were empty, yet on his back he carried an unmarked, hard black case, which looked as if it could hold nothing other than one broomstick.
The woman stood opposite the man on the island, and from her stance and expression one gathered an aura of confidence and elegance. She stood clothed in a dress which flowed around her slim, athletic body. On her face, she wore a smirk but that was the only prominent facial feature which betrayed any emotion, as her eyes were covered by the bangs of her hair. As for the rest of her hair, it was tied up tautly in a bun and meticulously placed on the top of her head.
“We know each other well, don’t we?” the man said.
“After being married for over 15 years, I would imagine so,” the woman replied. “But you know why we have to do this.”
“I won’t give you the case. You know that’s not possible.”
The woman’s smirk grew into a grin, and she said, “Well I suppose I’ll just have to take it then, won’t I?”
From seemingly nowhere they both drew forth weapons with seconds and began immediately. The combat was intense, and they both felt the pressure of the situation. Only one of them would be able to leave this island and alive, and both were intent making sure that one wasn’t the other. The man had been concealing three revolvers in his coat, and began firing at a rapid pace. He would juggle the pistols, firing two at a time while a third was suspended in the air waiting for its moment. His technique was excellent, yet so was the woman’s.
From her dress she had withdrawn a long, steely sword which bore little emotion compared to her. She was clearly enjoying herself as she leapt forward and deflected the man’s bullets, cutting through them as if they were cotton candy. The woman approached and closed ground quickly, and within seconds she was in front of the man. She let out a grin, feeling victory close at hand.
The man had not dropped his composure this entire time, and this was no exception. Coolly, he blocked the woman’s overhead swing with the guns in his two hands, and as the woman’s delight melted away, he craned his neck and caught the third gun with his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
And with that, he jerked his mouth forward, emptying the contents of the revolver in the woman’s face. Her body twitched for a moment, and then slumped down slowly onto the man’s. The man caught her with his arms, and gently lifted her up. The woman’s face was the still the epitome of beauty, and displayed no shock or sadness whatsoever. With the woman in his arms, the man turned towards the sea and began to walk. When he encountered the water, he kept moving forward, and as the water moved up his body, he continued to walk. Soon, only his head was visible, and then, he was gone.
I just realized it's like "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" but the woman dies.
Oh well.
Oh well.
