The Stranger

Stranger
She sat on the same bench, in the same park, during the same interval of time every day, her scrapbook propped open on her lap, her pencil hovering over her blank page hoping the serenity and peace of her surroundings would inspire her art. He intrigued her with his oiled moustache, his impeccable suit, the top hat askew on his head and the small, white hands folded in his lap. She had created a character, a thinly veiled copy of him. He was not her usual type. He was not tall, broadly built, darkly handsome and yet he drew her to him. It was all she could do to restrain herself on the groaning, weather beaten bench that was one of many lining the pond that curved its way through the park. She could imagine vividly the feel of his hands tracing a path across her bare arms and naked legs. There a sensuality to his full, curved lips. She could imagine them pressing against her own. A day looking at him could inspire boundless art. Without him her creativity was stunted. She would stare at him, his face reflected in the pond’s surface, sunlight playing across it, a halo of light framing his hair.