He was in Jamaica. On a visit. He'd been dragged out for the second (no, third night) to a club, a duppy club. Full of living ghosts. Ghosts of the living sort, the American sort that walk completely unaware of all breathing plants amongst them; unaware of anything whatsoever save that what pays them their due attention, by God! Uck! And this, all over again, again! He had been reluctant this time around. Reluctant, yes.... in the way he always was: as in not-reluctant at all, whatsoever. But! What luck! This time his eyes fell on a girl of a special sort- one of the village queen's maids, perhaps. She was slender and long-limbed, of a complexion that was exactly the tint of the fine thanaka powder she was wearing on her face. She had huge dark eyes and her face was long and perfect in its symmetry. Her bangs were the work of grace. She was by far the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, of a loveliness beyond imagining. He stood there, carefully pinching fingers to lip, self consciously removing them. He was in awe, transfixed. Silence struck him for a good moment. Meanwhile the club bore the blood and drone of typical dancehall. Awful shit, more and more of the same. It did not betray the music made aware to him however. For it was Miles' "Concierto De Aranjuez (Adagio)" that swept him like a rogue wave on a squall afternoon, for this occasion. He postured carefully at the bar, looking and utilizing a not unlarge fellow for cover. This girl was like none he had ever seen before - beautiful beyond belief, beyond comprehension. She was like the palace itself, a thing of glass, inside which you could see everything of which your imagination was capable. He stole a glance. Then another. She had the appearance of being frightened, yet perfectly calm. She appeared innocent, and yet aware of her total seductiveness. He could not take his eyes off her. He knew he was watching something he would never forget.
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