The young woman - I noticed her a short distance from another, much fitter one - was manipulating some controls in her vehicle. A sprinkling of discreet freckles on her cheeks helped me to still see in her a lot of the fairy-tales-reading girl that she’d been just a while ago and her skin - and some air around her - was of that pale Celtic hue, which makes you think of those three warring Irish kings, the runaway princess, a nearly silent stream that cuts through a mist-clad glen and that famous legend-changing kiss.
She managed, with some difficulty, to turn a little the complicated machine she was riding, and I caught a glimpse of more of her face. It was framed by light brown hair that could have a gold note to it, unless it was sunshine, abundant that afternoon. The features were delicate and there was some sweetness about them. Maybe it was even one of those magical British faces that merge beauty, kindness and the woman herself into something breath-taking, something sublime, something that simply challenges out the noble man in you, if there is one there.
I hoped she’d be able to turn a bit more, so that I could look at her eyes, but she wasn’t doing a good job and I didn't blame her: it was impossible for her to see properly where she was going and what her hand was doing, because she was unable to move her head, permanently tilted downward; or much else of her limp, partly withered body.
There was another woman nearby. She was busy with something at the moment, but I was sure that soon she’d come up to her charge and help her drive that chair up a small ramp into the little van which was to take that crippled Celtic princess to wherever she is confined for most of her life.
I gave up on the hope of seeing her eyes, but before speeding up I looked at the whole of her again and wondered: Could she be - one day, in this or the next Universe - the most beautiful, and fittest, girl in the world*? And call me a sucker, and I am such a sucker for happy ends, I thought: yes.
*I realise I may be verging onto, or plunging into, cheesy, but I'm such a sucker for music by The Artist Formerly Known As Prince (or is he a mere Prince again?), that aristocrat of R&B.
Illustration
*I realise I may be verging onto, or plunging into, cheesy, but I'm such a sucker for music by The Artist Formerly Known As Prince (or is he a mere Prince again?), that aristocrat of R&B.
Illustration
