I knew her by name and that is to say, I knew only of her, and she did not know me. At least not enough where she would take notice. She entered my classroom as a bewitching femme fatale. An object of my affection, unbeknownst to any other boys in class. If I could keep my ardor strictly an affectation, I stood a chance of obtaining my recompense before any one else noticed her. I stayed quiet and admired her from a distance, watching her stride up and down the aisles of our classroom, clacking her heels with every step. I watched and waited for the sound of every movement she made. Her footsteps had a distinctive, individual cadence. I did not have to move my head to know she was approaching and she did not know I was watching and listening. I memorized the melody of her shrieking, infectious laughter and knew where she was before she took a single step; surreptitiously taking her inventory from a guarded absence.
She wore a powder blue skirt in summer and a navy blue blazer and skirt in winter. I memorized the curvatures of her outfits, preferring the powder blue of summer as it accentuated her silhouette without the impediment of her jacket. Her hair was straight but curved downward to the nape of her neck and would bounce as she strode. I watched her hair spring side to side and up and down as her cadence became more pronounced with each step she took. I took particular notice of her strides as she enjoyed high heels accentuating the sound of her steps making a conspicuous pace. I waited impatiently for her to get up from her desk; as her footsteps would surely follow. Her gait was blissful and pronounced. Her amble made her skirt swing as I took note of her visage. She would never know what I knew; that her individuality was now a duality; shared and affixed between her and me. I preferred she not know me; as her allure would be cracked and shattered. My advantage was secrecy, and my ordnance to keep within my mind's peripheral vision. I possessed an arsenal of confidences I constructed inside my own cognizance.
She would remain maintained, forever entombed in my imagination, as I wait and I wait for the sound of her heels' approaching intonation. She's coming closer. I hear her! My impetuousness at an apex as my desire spins romantic tales of chivalrous adoration. Alas, I am violently jolted to the instant; convinced she doesn't suspect my fervor. My memories must remain my quiet enlightenment, a self-evident, yet irreversible truth. I am reminded daily of her. The years of separation have not assuaged my fervor; the memories of her footsteps a reactant catalyst spurring my imagination onward to the present day.
It has been said that the true test of the value of a work of art, a poem, a literary tome or film is whether it can withstand the test of time. We have withstood this challenge, and remain steadfast in my resolve to keep these memories robust and strong - guarded, stalwart and powerful. Time is standing still. I have nothing but time on my side; as recollection remains my ally, a fait accompli I am destined to relive time after time, again and again. There are no boundaries, no rules I must follow. She was then, and is today an elusive enchantress, a willowing flower; consecrated and splendid. And to me, will always remain that elusive object of my desire.
Greg Sacchet - 12/6/2011