Read introduction

For her...again...

My Best Friend Never Existed

Picby Marc Lionhart25 Apr 2014

She was a girl slightly taller than myself. Brunette hair stroking her back and scolding blue eyes.
She had a smile that could tear the dormant love directly from the unbeating heart of a corpse and use it to shock it back to life.
Her cheeks round, with a button nose between them. A thin defined chin underneath protruding not much further than her exquisitely aligned forehead.
She was a true example of a doll-faced woman. Symmetrical and beautiful to the untrained eye, causing rifts in emotions upon first glance.
Love often found her in the most early stages.
My fondest memory of her was when she presented herself clad in a long red velvet dress that accentuated her stunning curvaceous figure. She rest her head against mine, her breath a jet of flustering steam warming my neck, and whispered "I love you".
Simple, yet it struck me harder than an eternal atom bomb.
Shortly after this we went to a bar to be merry and look into each other's eyes, something we often did.
Her red dress lightly caressed the floor as she walked, her hips swaying in the rhythm of her dance-like step. The pavement may have even fallen for her, she had a way with love I had never seen.
Seeing her for the first time was an odd experience. I remember feeling like I knew her. As I approached her to introduce myself I was shaking. I'm not a particularly good looking man, I'm not very well dressed or clean shaven and I am of average build. I am rugged, used and often unwell for whatever reason. No catch, but not impossible to take care of.
To approach a woman like her seemed absurd, but the night took a whimsical turn and quite frankly the whiskey was my mentor. I did it anyway, and she seemed delighted I had done so.
Love baffles me at the best of times.
As we approached our favourite joint, a little underground bar out of the way, she stops me and pulls me in.
She lands a firm kiss on my cheek then swiftly wipes away the excess. She has a small tear on the brink of tumbling sitting elegantly below her left eye. I think nothing of it.
We enter. I nod at the doorman. She performs her smile again.
We pick a place to sit not far from the band. She loved the band. She loved the "powerful jazz", something she always says.
Every chord that is struck, every note that harmoniously transcends, every direction the music takes us. She loves it all. So she sits close to it, and moves with it.
With drinks joining us like company, we are now in full synchronised flow. She, a White Russian and me, a short stocky scotch. Reflective of our personalities.
I take intermittent swigs, she takes hers as refined sips, her lips touch the edge of the glass seducing the liquid closer to her mouth. She'll add a Film Noire touch to just about anything.
My drink draws to a conclusion, an empty one.
The trumpet player is soloing now.
I look at the empty glass and back at her, then once more, only to notice she was never there.
She had not disappeared, she was never there.
I had been drinking alone.
She fades slowly from each memory, and I fall deeper in love with the woman that never existed.