Bulletproof Heart

                                        Bulletproof Heart


  She sits in the park, near the hidden duck pond surrounded by lillies and cat tails, silver tears streaming down her cheeks so hot you can see the steam rise from her face.  The rain has melted her beautiful, curly red hair down over her grayish-olive eyes, leaving it to rest in a tangled mound on the nape of her neck.  She tries to calm herself and regain control of her breathing, but she has run so far and been crying so hard that she feels she may never breathe again.  Looking down at her scratched and bleeding porcelain hands she notices that she has ripped her lavendar satin dress, ruining the battonburg lace trim that her mother hand sewn with love.  As quickly as the night takes over the day, the tears begin streaming again with no mercy.  How will she ever hold her head with pride again?
  On the other side of the pond, underneath the weeping willow, he sat, legs crossed, with his tablet and charcoal pieces.  He often hid in the park to capture subjects for his art.  By hiding from them he could capture their true essence, their beauty, unhidden and unprotected.  He had been about to leave when he saw her approach the pond.  Something about her told him to wait.  He sat back down and watched her like a stranger in the night.  He felt her pain, saw the bleeding of her hands and knees; he could feel the sadness in her tears, the sorrow in her eyes.  He couldn't quite catch his breath.  Briefly forgetting why he was here, he looked down at his tablet.  In a rush he grabbed a piece of charcoal and began to sketch what he saw.  A girl, not quite a woman, desperately pouring out silver tears over a tragedy he could only imgaine.  As he watched her and drew her, he could almost smell the rose scented soap she had bathed in.  He could feel the warmth radiating from her face and neck.  With his eyes he traced the elegant shape of her body.  The long lines of her neck and spine.  The graceful wave of her arms when she reached up to untangle the mass of hair at the back of her neck.  He wondered if she would take short, graceful steps or long, drawn out strides with her slender, dancer-esque legs. 
  He continues to watch her as she unearths an item from her pocket.  He can't make out it's shape, but can see the brilliant blue glimmer of sapphire against white gold.  She brings the trinket to her lips and gently kisses it as she cradles it in her hand.  Suddenly she drops the trinket and leaps to her feet, as if she has heard someone calling her name, coming after her.  She turns and looks at the weeping willow.  Feeling as if he had been caught, his breath halting in his chest, his heart beating rapidly with every passing second, he can't take his eyes off of hers.  He knows she can see him, he feels the blush rising up his neck and covering his face.  Unable to move, he sits, locked in her gaze.  She looks over her shoulder and back again at the weeping willow where he sits, frozen; and before she can take another breath, she begins to run, as fast as she can, across the park and out the front gates.
  He remains frozen in time for a short while longer.  Finally he can feel his legs and stands to ease the pain from sitting for such a long time.  Confused by what interrupted and frightened his muse, he looks down at his drawing and can't believe what he sees.  The beauty and innocence, the grace and purity of this one single girl.  A girl he knows nothing of, not even her name.  He again lets his eyes wander to the other side of the pond.  As he begins to emerge from the cloak of the willow, something catches his eye; something blue and glimmering.  Quickly he races to where she had been resting, careful not to be seen, even more conscious of what might had caused her to flee in the first place.  In disbelief he finds the item that he seeks; the brilliant sapphire trinket.  A heart shaped stone set in brilliant white gold elaboratly etched with a rose pattern he had never before seen.  On the backside were the letters C. E. M.  Her initials?  Perhaps.  More importantly, something of value that she is sure to treasure.  A key, a passport to seeing her again, if only he knew how. 
  His name is James Porter.  His family is well known for their wealth and influence with government officials.  His father, Robert, is a senator in congress and his mother, Sophia, a diplomat for foreign affairs.  James, having never been interested in matters of government, spends most of his days strolling through town, stopping then and again to capture a face or an object on paper.  It has been twelve days since he first saw her at the park.  He goes back every day in hopes of seeing her once again.  Some days he only has the time for a quick stroll around the pond.  Other days he resumes his seat under the gloomy willow.  It is on these days that he loses all track of time.  So focused on the bench by the pond, cradling, fondling the trinket she left behind in the pocket of his jacket.  If he closes his eyes he can see her face, tear stained and sad; her hair tangled and mussed at the back of her neck.  He can still smell the rose scent that parfumed the air that night.  He opens his eyes and suddenly the afternoon that had brought him here has turned to night.  Panicked that someone may be looking for him, he quickly gathers his things and rushes off for home.  He is rounding the corner by the market when he sees her.