Zan Perrion

The Alabaster Girl

A brief excerpt...
 ˜™

All beautiful things must end. Otherwise they are not beauti-
ful. A simple truth, suspected by most, acknowledged by few.
I pause for a moment to consider this small bunch of wild
flowers I tied together today with a string. Yes, it is a quiet
truth, a universal truth.
I pretend now to hide the flowers behind my back, then tap
on her door. I know that when she opens the door she will
pretend to be surprised by this artless bouquet that I pretend
to hide, and I love this about her and that this is the way of
all women.
She opens the door with a flourish, excited, inviting, shining
like she does. What’s that behind your back? Oh this? Just
some flowers. She claps her hands in delight and gathers the
flowers and me into her home.
She is superb, this woman, this quintessence. I watch her
now as she shifts the flowers about in a blue vase. Her seren-
ity is infectious and calming, like the warmth of the sun on a
balcony in the morning.
Observe a woman in profile, intent on a task; it is one of the
unsung wonders of the world. Watch the way she touches her
hair, how she pushes it back from her face, curving it around
the contour of her ear, a subconscious gesture when it gets
in her way. And notice your delight when her hair falls right
back down again as she leans forward. Some women have no
idea the effect they have on men; it is beauty in repose, and
it is wonderful.
You... painted on this moment, impressionist’s swirl…
We all have one perfect image when we are reminded of some-
one who has touched our lives. It is the first image that swims
into view every time we think of them in the future. I realize
now, watching Emily arranging those little wild flowers in that
little blue vase, that this is the image of her my mind has for-
ever captured, the vision that will return on those mornings
when I awake and suddenly miss her, or when I happen to
drift through her perfume again somewhere, someday.
She pauses now, as I watch, trying to decide if she is pleased
with her arrangement, discovers she is, then turns to me,
her eyes dancing. I am unsure which is more endearing:
her breathtaking natural beauty, or her complete innocence
concerning it.
“I just have to finish getting ready,” she is saying now, twirl-
ing toward her bedroom on a cushion of grace, all smiles and
light steps and knowing. I smile in return, unnoticed, for she
has already disappeared. She wants to make a good impres-
sion, for everything to be perfect between us.
Well, not to worry, Emily... you already have and it already is…
“There’s a bottle of wine on the counter,” she calls out from
her bedroom. “I forget how to pronounce it, but it’s the kind
you like, the Italian one. I won’t be long, I promise.”
“Take your time. This—” I glance at the bottle, “—Sangiovese
and I will get to know each other.”
I pour a glass of the wine and look around the room. Every-
thing is perfectly arranged, simple and elegant. There is
comfort here in her home; not comfortable things, just an
abiding sense of comfort, subtle and woven throughout. There
is a fireplace in one corner. There is a portable easel by the
window with a painting just begun, the inchoate figure of a
woman. There is a bookshelf with books and trinkets and
trivial things, all arranged and composed just so. Everywhere
are candles (of course) and small pictures in small frames,
pictures of family and friends and trips to London. Everything
is neat and everything is clean and everything is correct. I
take it all in, this little home, this wicker and pillowy comfort,
this essence of Emily.
There is a kindness here, a sanctuary, something ancient,
something necessary, something that calls to me, something
that I don’t have in my life, something that I eternally long
for. This is a place of creation, of knowing, of serenity. This is
a place of beauty. I feel like I could stop right here right now
and rest, in this quietude, by this fireplace, with this woman,
with my head forever on her breast.
I sit down and spread out upon her sand-colored sofa, my
feet heavy on her wooden coffee table, careful not to disturb
the meticulously arranged green apples in their wide and
shallow bowl, and raise the glass to light.
Ah yes... Sangiovese, the Tuscan courtesan with a
shadowy past…
Here’s what I’ve learned in my life: to truly experience any-
thing, to experience things in their entirety, all the senses
must be engaged. A woman is like a fine wine of the rarest
vintage. It is not enough to merely glance at the wine in the
glass, then toss it back without a care or thought. Instead,
one needs to take the time to let the wine relax and breathe, to
observe its clarity and complexion, to admire its superb body,
to draw in its exquisite bouquet with every breath, savoring it
deeply, and then—and only then—should one take that first
anticipatory sip, drinking it in slowly, mindfully, attuning the
senses to all of its quixotic subtleties, its texture, its nuance…
experiencing it... breathing it... living it... fading into it.
This is the secret to living and loving: everything must be
experienced on all levels, everything must be explored, every
invitation accepted, every experience fully immersed. When
we travel to another city, why do we stay on the tourist track?
How dreary to see the world this way! Far better to discover
the rhythm of the place, to touch the city’s fabric with our
hands, to absorb its culture through the pores of our skin.
Who, after all, can say they’ve been to Paris when the only
thing they remember is the Eiffel Tower?
It is the same with women and it is the same with wine.
I hear her voice from the bedroom now, soft and low, singing
to herself. I lean back and close my eyes.
Emily is, to me, the highest form of art. There are some
women you encounter in your life that shake your foundations.
Because there are women like her in this world, I believe. I
believe in the kindness and gentleness and goodness of the
female spirit. When I consider my life in the company of all
those rare and beautiful women, surrounding me with such
boundless beauty and grace, I can only conclude that every-
thing good in me has accumulated from my time with them.
Because of women like Emily, there are poets and artists in
the world. Because of her, I am in love with all women.
I raise the glass to light and I know. I know that wine and
travel, wild flowers and women can only be truly experienced
in their entirety, that all the senses must be engaged, and
that, ultimately, all beautiful things must end.
Otherwise they are not beautiful.
I give it about a month.
Maybe two.
— The Alabaster Girl, page 110