Letters

She was pretty like the girls in Volegov paintings. She never looked straight at me; I was observing from far away. I was observing from a distance and imagined her demeanor concerning children. She would be so soft yet sturdy, accepting yet not withholding expert-like judgment. I imagine she loves fine art, nothing after the 1970s. She finds the field most vapid lacking originality, and void of any meaning, at least, of any importance beyond the aesthetic. She is Arabic, with ancestral roots in a culture I most admire. She has challenged me; I am suddenly overcome with an adjective I can only describe as smitten. I can see her face through the dust storm of ordinary men. She dances through the thicket of meaningless conversation, through the swirling tornados of dust devils attempting to sweep her off her feet, but she is not so easily swayed or convinced as she knows her worth. She knows the assets she wagers and seldom shares the table with insignificant men. She is a woman that sculptures were crafted after, a woman full of grace yet carrying a weapon to soften a man. A weapon capable of both destruction and creation. A weapon that knocks us out at our knees and weighs heavy on our hearts. He is strong-willed as ever, but he finds a human he must retain once in her presence. He finds a woman worth running after. Worth dancing through the dust storm and dust devils, through the thickets and tornados.

Cover Art: Sailing Vessel - Volegov