Admirer from Above

“He sees her, walking through the busy streets below. With her midnight-colored hair streaming down her back, she is the picture of perfect beauty. Her face is illuminated by the contrast of her pale skin and dark eyes. She moves with graceful, flowing movements, as if her entire journey was predestined for her, and she is just going through the motions. He gazes out his window as she moves through the crowds, unaware of her loyal watcher. He has watched her, every day, for weeks now, moving in the same manner, in the same direction, at the same pace, at the same time. She appears from around the corner of 5th street, walks down the street below his apartment window, and disappears around the corner of 6th street. At his window, he watches her pass by, dreaming, wishing he could walk next to her as she disappears into oblivion. She is never accompanied by another, and there is never any interaction between her and the shadows surrounding her. His eyes never leave her, as he fears he will miss a second of her presence. As she appears from the edge of his world, all else fades and blackens in comparison to her beauty. “What fools these men be,” he thinks to himself, “to pass by such beauty and not by stricken by awe.” For no matter what happens in the street, no man, woman, or child turn to face her. She moves through the crowd as if she was nothing more than a warm summer’s breeze. The only one to acknowledge her existence is the lone watcher from above.
Her admirer sits above, in his sanctuary, unwilling to face the outside world while it still teems with life. He travels only at night, fearing the light of the sun and the crowds of the day, and only finding comfort in the sunless night, and even then never leaving the safety of his street. For him, the world is too dangerous of a place for someone with his illness. Long ago, some time after he first moved into his apartment, which is too long ago for him to remember exactly when, he developed a philosophy that no beauty could ever come from a world so cold. Yet, many weeks ago, this dark-haired goddess appeared from beyond his world, and captured his attention like nothing else ever has before. For those few brief minutes that his human eyes look upon her, he drinks in every bit of detail. When those minutes have passed, he leaves his window and takes to his bed, where he satisfies his ravenous appetite through fictitious encounters with his unrequited love. When he travels out of his home at night, he follows her trail, getting lost in his lust to be by her side. There are some nights, when his imagination cannot fully satisfy him, and his mind is intoxicated by her picture, where he sees her walking down her path. It is at these moments, when he feels he is right next to her, when he feels his heart stop, and it is as if death itself is standing with him, watching the beauty pass by.
Today it is raining, yet the watcher sits at his open window, waiting for his minutes of passion. The clock strikes noon, and the woman appears, walking through the crowd as they run past to escape the storm. She continues on her trail, despite the weather, wearing no raincoat and carrying no umbrella. As she walks by the closest point to the window, the watcher sees her as clearly as ever. He sees her face, dry and soft, and her hair, glistening as if she were standing in the gleaming sun. Not a drop of rain has dared touch her, for fear of unthinkable torture by the hands of God for defiling such a personification of beauty. He stares, as he always does, but for the first time not due to her beauty, but to the inhumanness of her existence. A creature of such beauty could not possible have been given life in a world as dark and corrupt as this one. For the first time he notices details of more than just her beauty. Her notices that the dress she wears is never different, and always black in color. Her hair, her makeup, and her movements are always the same, repeated over and over, never changing. She is constant, just as she is in his mind, just as she was the first time he saw her. He stares, not because he believes in her beauty, but because he doubts in her existence. And for the first time, before she disappears from his view, she turns and smiles at him.
One smile is all that was needed to dislodge any disbelief in his perfect love. She has acknowledged his existence, in that one simple act, and erased the doubt from his mind. For the next twenty-four hours, her smile never leaves his mind, and he never leaves his window. The sun welcomes the next day. The watcher turns his head to the proper view, and waits. The clock strikes noon, yet she does not appear. He slowly rises from his seat, and calmly walks out the door down to the street below. For the first time in years, he steps out into the sunlight, into the crowded street below his window. He slowly moves towards her path as the people move past him. No one pays any attention to him, no one interacts with him. He turns to wait for her appearance, only to find himself standing face to face with his dream lover. She is smiling the same smile he saw yesterday for the first time, and is wearing the same dress that he first saw her in, painted the color of night. Her beauty is untainted, unchanged, since he first noticed her traveling under his window many weeks ago, as if she stepped out of his memory and into his reality. “You are waiting for me,” she says to him. Her voice echoes around him, like a sound in a cave. Her voice paralyzes his body, yet he feels his muscles relax and go numb. “I have always been waiting for you,” he replies to the shadow. “Then come with me,” she whispers, “and never wait again.” With these words, she walks past him. He turns and follows, walking aside of his love, as they disappear around the corner. No longer is she the unrequited dream. No more would he have to sit at his window, cursed only to gaze upon her beauty. He was hers now and forever.”