Her brooding eyes are staring at me; her glossy lips perfectly painted in red and the blemished yet beautifully sculptured nose appears as soothing as sunrays on a frosty December morning.
Her mauve scarf is draped around her slender neck; her pink blouse compliments her grey trousers and black boots. Her bun is a chaos; mishmash of her light brown hair emerging out of nowhere, making her appearance charismatic nonetheless. Keeping her gaze firm, she is tirelessly looking at me; and I, crazily, madly, passionately cannot not stare back.
She is a masterpiece; my ultimate creation so far. She’s beautifully crafted, yet she seems incomplete, perhaps her eyes seek a bit more labour. She is indeed beauteous; alas, she isn’t real.
Unsatisfied with what I have, I pick up my brush, water color, and black oil pastel color trying to embellish her carefully, staying an arm’s length away from the canvas which consists of her. I tweak open the cap of the water color bottle, which is frozen stiff. In less than a flash of second, I fallaciously spill the repugnant black color all over her exemplary angelic body.
The beauty, which she once had, has now been transformed into nothingness, right in front of me. Beauty, they say, however great it is, fades away with time, and sometimes even in no time.