Yesterday, I saw the most beautiful woman in the world. She was sitting opposite me in a pub with an older couple whom I took to be her parents. She was young, about twenty-one at most, and was, I suspected, home from university for the weekend: she had the louche confidence of a student, an ease with herself which was entirely natural and utterly charming. It was clear she was the centre of her own universe, not in a vane, selfish way, but because she was so clearly focussed on what she wanted to do: the young have a certainty, a sense of purpose which idealism fosters and which only the future grind of reality diminishes. You remember what it was like when you were young, and eternity stretched before you, and every day was a new opportunity? When you had a vision, goals, when you felt - no, knew - that you were going to make a difference. She exuded that calm intent, this beautiful young woman.
The pub was packed, and I was with a colleague from work, so I couldn't concentrate on her properly, couldn't tune in to her conversation, but as I half-heartedly responded to my colleague's inane chatter, I found the lure of her perfect features compulsive, found myself unable to resist staring at her. We were only a few feet apart, seated at separate tables, and she was directly in my line of vision, facing slightly away from me so that I saw her in profile. A couple of times when she looked up she caught my eye, but took no notice, absorbed as she was in her own conversation and her own company.
As I sat watching her, I was aware of the effect she was having on me, and aware, too, that this wasn't normal behaviour for a respectable woman. I wasn't accustomed to lusting after young girls in pubs but, it was undeniable, she was eliciting a very sexual response from me. I could feel a familiar tingle, the queasy edginess in my stomach, that light-headedness and dry mouthed nervousness which generally signifies a lustful attraction. And yes, I was becoming wet.
She had been there when we arrived, a little after six, our usual Friday night rendevous to release the tensions of the working week. I spotted her immediately and was instantly hooked. I was relieved when, as they completed their drinks, the father, or he whom I took to be the father, went to the bar to buy another round. "Same again, Simone?" he had asked. I knew her name, then: Simone, a beautiful name, and so apt for her. As the father returned with the drinks I settled back and resumed my secret observation; midway through those drinks, though, much to my dismay they called for a menu, and about quarter of an hour later they decamped to the adjoining restaurant to eat. And my beautiful, beautiful girl was gone.
I can't stop thinking about her. All day I have been trying to recall that face from my memory, relive its beauty, revel in its perfection; all day I have mooned around the house, reluctant to do anything which requires concentration, which would prevent me from thinking about her. I'm like some feckless, lovelorn teenager; I know I should get on and forget about her, but I can't, I can't give her up. She is the most beautiful woman in the world and I'm obsessed. There's no other way to describe it: I'm obsessed.
You probably wouldn't agree with me if you saw her. Most likely you would think I had lost my senses, or at the very least my taste. She is not what you would call a conventional beauty, I'll grant you. She has a huge, crooked nose, for one thing, and one of those simpering, self conscious smiles, the sort which say "love me" and which after a while make you want to hate them. But she is still the most beautiful woman in the world. No question, no debate, she just is. All the rest of you so-called beauties can take a back seat as I attempt to conjure up perfection.
As I said, an enormous nose, truly massive, dominating her entire face. It is the fulcrum, the centrepoint, the genesis: everything else seems to have slid off it and into place. At its bridge, where bone meets cartilage, there is a truly noble Roman hook, quite the most extraordinary, extravagant and graceful I've ever seen. From there, the lateral cartilages give shape and definition to the main body of the nose, a trumpeting expanse leading triumphantly down her face. Just when you think, though, that it must surely launch outwards, projecting like some glorious ski run into the distance, it draws back in towards the face again, rounding neatly and sweetly down to the septum and surprisingly small, teardrop shaped nostrils. And this is what makes the nose so exceptional: it is the heroic marriage of the fulsome and the dainty, the way in which the magnificent, the grand, resolves into a fragile, delicate perfection. It is a nose which is bigger, and greater, than the sum of its parts: it is the ensemble, the generous conjunction of the monumental and the refined which confers its true majesty. It is, in truth, perfect.
So dominant is her nose that at first you don't really take in the rest of her features. This is a pity, as they, too, play their part in creating the perfection that is Simone. Her eyes, if one is honest, are possibly set too close, but it is impossible to imagine them any other way. They are small and round, dreamy blue beneath extravagant lashes. Slightly downturned, they lend her a kind of oriental serenity. Her mouth, without lipstick, is still a vibrant red, with beautiful, plump lips, a vermilion curtain undulating provocatively beneath her perfect nose. Unstyled, but sexy, shoulder length hair rounds off her appearance, framing her dazzling beauty in a chestnut, windy, tousled mop. I wish I were a more accomplished writer, wish I could convey through words the extraordinary beauty of the woman, but I can't, and I am not sure anyone could. Perfection cannot be replicated.
As soon as I saw her I knew I had to make love to her. I cannot live without having savoured the joy of loving her, of kissing, caressing her, stroking her hair; I need to taste her, trace my lips across her face, plant a thousand kisses on her nose, cover it with my love, my adoration; I want to have her in my arms, our breasts together, hands clasped in union; I want to explore, to undress her, lead her to my bed, to lay her down and drink her beauty; with my hands I will caress her, with my tongue I will entrance her, with my eyes I will worship her. Together, we will disappear into the ether, drawn out of this world into a world of beauty; we will emerge in Elysian meadows, walk hand in hand through nature's glory; we will make music, compose symphonies of romance; we will paint our emotions on an astral canvas, bold and vibrant and strong; we will write sonnets of such grace and eloquence one would cry at the sight of them. I want her; I need her. I aim to have her. As I sit here and write this, I have come to a decision.
I am going to seduce Simone.
On to next story: Simone's Diary
