write a story by using the outline
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on a too sunny day, in a too sunny life, I turned my back on the sun and on light. And it is then that she came into existence. She looked upon me, I know it for the way I felt her gaze kiss mine with soft yearning. Her image was all too familiar, her visage one I’d come to know well. I would chase her profile with sideways glances. And I would beseech she stay a while so that I may take her in, in full. I dreamed of putting pen to paper — fluid lines inky and permanent, capturing her. But she was ever-fleeting, and the pursuit was futile.
Every so often she’d reappear under soft lamplight and rest on the crest of my palm as it met my chin. Caress my cheek, and linger so long as my eyes remained blinking. But as anchors descended from my lids so did she descend from my company.
Other times she’d be at my back, putting footsteps into footsteps, quiet as a young feather on a dewy ground. Yet even in those moments, timid and stolen from view, I knew her to be around. She was always easier to notice when my eyes were turned elsewhere, and they often were. And in this way, she kept my rapt attention for her mystery and cunning. To be seen only in moments of evasion was a thrill unmatched, our favorite game.
There was much I would have done to keep her humor, but my insistence would never be rewarded. Fate dealt a wicked hand, and should I look upon her directly, she could stay no longer than the beat of a hummingbird’s iridescent wings.
All the while, the sun simmered and seared in grand, open spaces, insisting on invading my quiet corner — enlisting armies to trace my steps, to plague my refuge. And all the while, she who held my heart pleaded that I continue to run, if only for the way she remained a few steps ahead of me all of the time. She was most familiar to me this way, in moments of distance.
Eventually, my steps slowed, my muscles stiffened, my hair grayed. My skin ripened enough to peel from my bones. I looked on her only through pruned fingers, hiding from the only one I’ve ever loved. Before I knew it, I had wasted away in pursuit of her.
My knees became sand, slid from their places and delivered me to a cold ground. She stretched before me, just out of reach.
I knew that the time had come when the sun would soon catch us. She would come for my carefully curated darkness, and she would come for her. And I was so tired. As I felt the warmth of reckoning creep across my back, I reached a hand out to her. And she reached away and slipped, finally, from view.
The sun did not laugh nor did she leer. I turned my head to face her, and there she stood, eyes sad, hand outstretched — reaching for me as she perhaps had all this time. I looked at that hand, yearning and telling of an ache I knew well, and to my own surprise, I took it.
The sun has never given me anything I’ve asked for.
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