I must warn you, mushiness lies within. Turn back now before it's too late.
She hasn’t the slightest clue how beautiful she is. And while terribly cliché, that is no exaggeration, though no surprise either. She is not, by commonly held standards, an embodiment of human physical beauty. She is no model—nor would I like her to be. She is not the object of every man’s desire, but she should be. By God, she should be.
She is, simply put, the single most physically and inwardly beautiful creature ever fashioned by those great Divine Hands. I will never compare her to any facet of nature—not an infinity’s worth of the cosmos’ brightest, most brilliant stars; not all the prettiest gems the depths of the earth have to offer; nor the most vibrant spring sunrise accompanied by a soundtrack of the sweetest birdsongs. How could I describe her by that which seems dreadfully dull in comparison?
It’s a funny contradiction, isn’t it? How she can both stand short of and yet immeasurably exceed the standards of traditional beauty. But I will never understand how any man can remain unsmitten by her. It is utter nonsense to me.
“Do you remember that, Josh?”
I snap back to my surroundings. Looking around and blinking a few times, I notice several familiar faces waiting on me. Nate repeats his question.
“Um… I think I vaguely remember,” I answer, not at all knowing what we’re referring to. “But I’m not sure.”
“Aw man, I can’t believe you guys don’t remember!” he says.
“Are you sure it was us?” says Chris. “You aren’t always the most aware individual of your surroundings.”
Everyone laughs at this well-known fact.
“Yeah, I’m almost positive it was you guys!” says Nate. “It was last year in the dorms.”
The exchange continues for another few minutes, Chris cracking his usual absurdly witty jokes that have everyone in stitches. I chuckle absent-mindedly, but my gaze wanders again. I look across the room, over scattered groups of chatty people talking about upcoming papers, weekend plans, and other mundane or spiritual things. By the projector a few people jam around on a guitar and box drum, jumping from song to song as their collective whim sees fit.
Near the corner by the couch she is talking to a couple friends. After a few more words the conversation ends, and she leaves through the doorway and around the corner into the kitchen. I wait a moment, then slip away from my current circle and begin forging my own way towards the kitchen. I don’t make a beeline, but rather allow myself to drift from group to group, chatting briefly with friends, exchanging hugs, and meeting a stranger or two.
Before long I am grabbing a cup from the counter, and walk over to the fridge to get some water. She is talking excitedly with Dan and Katie about the upcoming camping trip this weekend, which I have decided to skip to catch up on some work. She speaks with wide-eyed enthusiasm about everything, no matter how ordinary—a quirk that is wonderfully contagious. We often joke that when you talk to her, you talk like her.
With my cup full, I take a sip and head towards the group. She is fiddling with the zipper on her grey vest, under which she wears a flannel of bright sky-blue—her favorite color, and a color that has never looked better on anyone in the history of humanity. As I approach, she turns and smiles cheerfully, holding out a fist for a fist bump. I meet each with my own, and as I do, she graces me with eyes more flawless in their crystal-blueness than I could ever dream possible.
“Hi,” she says.
My heart shudders. I swear she could kill me with that.