I'm weak, I know it.

I can't resist a pair of blue eyes that sparkle just so, or brown ones that you want to melt into, like chocolate

A slim form walking down the street, with the tiniest sway of the hips always stops me in my tracks

It doesn't matter to me if her hair is a mass of curls, or a shiny curtain, or a short sleek cut

I don't care if the skin is alabaster or ebony or any shade in between.

Every pretty girl I pass snatches a piece of my heart and takes it with her, even if she never knows it, and in its place she leaves an image, bright at first, fading to a shadow later, of something beautiful. Something to be kept, and treasured, and loved.

"Hi there, I'm Death."

Sometimes it is just the nature of the business. You start with this list. It is a long list. You are not always on your own. There are those who lend a hand on especially busy days. When there is a plague or a war they send you an army of specialists. It isn't that the workload is difficult. The problem that comes up all too often is that there are far too many pretty girls. Every time one comes up on my list it does something to me.

"They seem to be the only ones who get spooked."

The company tells me the reason the pretty girls get spooked is because they force me to expose myself. My soul uncorks and emotion flows forth. I come upon them in the street and I just seize up. It lets them see me. I always see them at their best even when circumstances have left them at their worst. It is a design flaw in the system. When people pass on they regain their finest moments. I get the first glow of summer even before I close the eyes of winter.

"So beautiful. So fragile."

So I have a weakness. I'm not supposed to. All I am supposed to do is my job. We all know that is usually easier said than done. I could sit quietly and wait for the shift to end, but it never does. There is always another call on that damned phone. Another one bites the dust. Most of the time it is no big deal, but then they throw another one into the windmill of time. There she is, with that splendid aura around her, full of promise and waiting for her next calling. I can't help but look into her eyes and sigh. I'll only know her for a moment, but that moment is eternity for me. Her face and her form stay with me forever, just like every one that came before and every one that follows.

...her hair was long and lustrous black; and her eyes were great big blue things with timidities inside. I wished I was on her bus. A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world." Jack Kerouac - On the Road, Ch. 12


She stood there for a blink. Staring at me as if no one had ever bent down and picked something up for her before. Her hand was still outstretched, still holding the book. It could have been in passing...I couldn't feel the ground.

She said I had nice hands. I never saw her again. I'll never forget her voice.

I wished I was on her bus...instead I was lost in the too-big world of Manhattan, going the opposite direction.

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