Her cheek feels soft, like silk, beneath my palm.
“When we leave her today,” I say silently, “I want you to remember the feeling you have right now. Store it within you. And whenever you touch your cheek, you will remember it.”
She gasps in as she leans into my touch one last time, before she gets up.
She holds my hand for another moment, bites her bottom lip with all her front teeth as she glances up into my eyes, a shy grin of disbelief on her face.
Her eyes shimmer and radiate elation over me—and then she laughs. It’s a heartfelt laugh, one I have seen happen many times, usually with women who had their first orgasm in a row.
I smile at her, brush briefly over her cheek with the back of myfinger and pull her close to place a kiss on her forehead. She is so raw, so pure in her emotions, I don’t think I have seen anyone comparable to her ever.
Her gaze and laugh lighten my chest, and I laugh with her.
It is a wonderful moment I will never forget.
“Do you wish to take a look around?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she beams at me with sparkling eyes as she turns and takes in the books.Oh, to be young.
She reads spines, pulls some out to smell them, and I am consumed by watching her.
Yes, I have everything there is in life; I always had it. But with it came a heaviness, duty and discipline, and somehow, this twenty-seven-year-young woman reminds me to see life from an entirely new perspective.
She seems to see herself in an entirely different way, too, because I do not recognise the woman I saw in the tavern anymore.
“No way,” she says incredulously and pulls out a book in front of her.
“No way what?” I ask.
She turns and holds it in front of her so I can see the cover. But what I see is only her glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and big smile. I am rarely speechless, but this moment, I am. And only then do I realise what dangerous waters I am rafting in. I cannot lose myself like this—and yet, I do.
“Let me take a picture,” I say when I find my words again and get my phone out. I need this moment curated. For her. And maybe even me.
I can see she wants to argue for a split second, but then she catches herself and smiles warmly into the camera—the book in front of her. I finally get to see what it is: Shakespeare's First Folio from 1623. The original.
“Listen to this,” she says, and I don’t know why I do it, but I press the button to record a video as she begins to read.
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety, other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry,
Where most she satisfies, for vilest things
Become themselves in her, that the holy priests
Bless her when she is riggish.”
I have seen many, many plays by Shakespeare, and I have heard people read it, but none ever raised goosebumps on my arms.
She smiles at the book, then looks at me.
It is the moment I understand.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, about this woman is mediocre.
“Did you film that?” she asks me, almost horror-struck.
