Walking with Windmills.

As she walked away he couldn’t stop watching. Her walk was ethereal. It reminded him of being on some dark and lonely country back road with an old friend and catching a glimpse of a falling star through a dusty windshield. It was hope packaged in blue jeans and sitting on the top of heels. Not everybody had a walk like that. Most folks just ambled around from place to place, non-descript and plain. There were no metaphors and absolutely no amount of alliteration that could describe her walk. He felt foolish for even trying to unscramble the words in his brain to make sense of that walk. For him to try and describe that walk was akin to Don Quixote tilting at windmills. He liked to tilt at windmills though.

His head was full of images and words. The paper was laid out in his thoughts like a super sized Scrabble game and he was searching for double word scores. There had to be something he could write down that would make it less ethereal, something that would keep that walk from escaping into the aether. Less ethereal? No, that wouldn’t work; her walk flowed too well with the rotation of the world. She walked along the floor like the trade winds flowed along the equator. Warm and calm.

This was elegance on two legs. This was the word lovely come to life. He had to be dreaming, that was the only thing that could explain how this scene was playing out. It went on forever, and eventually it had to fade to black. There was no option available, after she left the room, but for the curtain to fall. The lights stayed on, the curtain stayed up, the scene was over but the play was not finished. This was a one woman production. Everyone else was simply scenery or part of the crew. Key grips and paper-mache rocks.

He was surely going to go insane if he watched her any longer. This is what purgatory must be like. There she was, sweet as salvation, but just out of reach. Every step he took she took one as well, she kept walking. He wanted to catch her and walk with her, walk beside her and see what wonders might be in her heart. He wanted to just stand still and watch her move along the hardwood like a ghost with purpose. As long as her purpose was to haunt him she could rattle all the chains she wanted.

She opened the door and walked outside. This was not a mode of transportation; a means to get from point A to point B. Her walk was the destination; it was all the places that needed to be reached. He moved, awkwardly towards her, and sat down. He needed to rest. He had taken a step for every one of hers and then one for each of his own. He looked over and realized that it wasn’t just her walk that was a dream, a production worthy of an encore. She sat there, legs crossed, quiet as the space between them, and she was still ethereal and elegant. She was still the destination and the windmill. He watched her quietly; anxiously. He closed his eyes and dreamed of her walk.