A Strange Woman

There was a woman strolling from shelf to shelf yesterday. There was a faint aura of wit and flexibility with her walk. She was looking for something, I think, and she found it. Her eyes, that have probably seen a lot, glinted with the chandelier above her. She skipped two steps until she reached the fourth level of the bookshelf. She looked along the books on the shelf and took a brown, leather book. It was thicker than the other books on the shelf, yet she held it with total elation. She stepped back from the shelf that loomed over her, turned around and took her seat. The way she crossed her legs were pretty something. Her auburn locks fell as she leaned towards the book as if it was trying to read it, too. I knew that she let the weight of her upper body on her elbows because her shoulders were relaxed and at home. She took her black, rimmed glasses off and lightly cleaned it. She held the decaying cover of the book gently and I caught a glimpse of the title of it — War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy. Her aura must be felt greater by those around her. There were other old books beside her, probably historical. To those around her, her aura must be something more than just wit. Those hazel eyes of her, that can be seen from faraway, haven’t seen what her mind’s eye had. Her slender feet, with those green polishes, haven’t traveled longer than her imagination. It’s such a shame that I wasted my time admiring someone I had no idea of, but at least, her strangeness is pretty something.


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