There I was, a bright-eyed young woman with the world before me, every possibility open, naive to what awaited. He was a man of charisma and intellectual prowess unparalleled. He stood tall in adversity and always made love as if it was his last night on earth. In his arms, we were made one. But the winds that brought him to me carried him away, for his first love was the unknown. I was just a flash of lightning on his journey, but on mine, he was the sun, the stars, the moon.
In my weeping, a whimsical, voluptuous woman materialized before me, holding this box in her hands. “If you’re going to be so dramatic,” she said to me, “at least look the part.” And with colors as deep as my passionate and melancholic yearning, I fully embodied the forgotten mistress to his first love, adventure. The pressed powders last longer on my eyes than the sultry nights I had with him, my one true love. I now sit on my balcony, staring off into the distance, awaiting his return.