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A Second Moment

Kenneth Avery is a Southern humorist with well over a thousand fans. The charm and wit in his writing span a nearly a decade.

Be Forewarned:

I suppose that you thought that this was a comical piece. Or probably you thought that this was a recipe or review.

Sorry. You figure it out.



Several years ago, I spied a woman is so perfect, she defies mortally-designed adjectives. She doesn't have any need for flattery. She knows how really beautiful she is, but isn't addicted to the mirror. She's a rare cut of humanity. I shall never forget that moment in time, when our lives intersected, and I felt all of the blood rush from my body to the docks where I was sitting. I do that a lot. Others do too when they are lonely and really have nothing to lose. In my ten years of hiding-out here to get away from people in general, I have witnessed my heart torn-out when one of those lonely souls have jumped from the angry ocean below only to be consumed by another nameless piece of trash.

She was walking down the boardwalk from the cruise ship down to the reception area a ways from where I was sitting. Sure, just a glimpse of her compelled me to make my way to just see a female of her caliber. I was both glad and depressed when my eyes fixed on her. Some hearts can beat without movement. This woman was wearing what looked like to be a designer dress that only looked tight, but she wore it as to show the world that she was as strong as an ape, but gentle as a baby.

"Hey, mister," I managed to say to this man who looked the part of a worn-out fireman. "I just need to know how to get to the lowest part of this gang-plank." What a choice of words. Gang-plank was used only in those Errol Flynn pirate films.

I slowly continued to watch this ravishing beauty who looked so natural that (I'm guessing) she had no use for make-up. Mother Nature took her as her own guinea pig, as it were. I mean. The woman looked as she was sparkling like a child's sparkler that's sold on the Fourth of July. And again, as swift as a mother eagle, she glanced in my direction, then swiftly looked back. She appeared to be waiting for someone. At this time, I began to grow closer to my Maker and just hope that I could just stand next to this earthly vision.

I began my quest to at least, stand by the gorgeous woman standing, and having a stern look on her face. My guess was that her lover was late to pick her up from a three-week cruise. She was entitled. Where did that old smelly garbage originate from where the men of the world have to give permission for their wives to travel without them? I hated it. Still do. Women have come a long way and she looked the part, still glued to the left of her and keeping me in this crowd of homeless people, drunks, and other slugs I came to know. I had to face and digest at least ten various scents of whiskey, wine, cigarette and cigar smoke and body odor.

I thought that the Dream Girl would leave upon catching the scent of the people that I have just told you about. But she stayed. She didn't smile, grin, or even check her make-up. This was one of the signs of her being a modern female, empowered, ready to take on the Army. And still, I couldn't get the image of her in that aqua dress, a memory that is tailor-made to perk me when I was alone. Maybe perk is not a valid word. I haven't the use of another word besides charge me like a 100,00 volts of electricity. Or more. She was just that kind of woman.

A few steps closer and then cat-like, curiosity hit. I wondered why was she still standing almost stationary and not meeting whomever she was waiting for. I guess it was just an old habit, because I was in the news media many years ago and asking questions was like a second nature. But in my younger years, I had a passionate drive, a fiery drive that carried me through many days and nights without rest or sleep to find the truth of what I was seeking.

But those days are a part of my history of faded what if's and I have learned to embrace those segments of imagination, so all things equal out in the end. Or so it seemed. What's this, a movement? Great ghost of Ireland blessed, she moved her right shoulder and looked to be growing disgusting. I thought that now she would continue to move in order so I could enjoy more of this luscious female.

Those scents in the crowd where I was hiding were now causing nausea in my body and I felt faint. Time to make a move to either run from this cherished place, a one in a billion chance to even see a woman as attractive as whom was standing just mere yards from me, or run toward downtown and lose the one priceless moment to give up seeing this woman again. I wasn't good in thinking things through. I was sweating. Fear has always affected me like that.

My throat was growing as arid as the Gobi Dessert. But I just took it like a man. I could get a drink later, but not get to gaze into the gorgeous woman who was now growing angry, but held it in check with such a graceful attitude. She looked to her left again and once again saw no one. As for me, I had two more choices to choose from. One, to just walk up and say hello to this goddess or two, run for cover and let my fear rule me.

You guessed it. I cautiously took one step after the other. Rats! A soft breeze was now blowing, but I had one positive thing for me going: she was not wearing a loose dress, but a well-fitting design. In three or four heartbeats I would get to speak to her. I was there. I collected myself. I slowlly-opened my mouth to speak . . .and then, just then, she vanished! I mean vanished as if she were in a cheap magician's show in a cheap dive somewhere in Five Points, N.Y. My heart slowly began breaking and I knew that death was imminent. Cold, heartless, death carved from the very depths of the abyss.

It was over. I was bent-over and not able to cry. And all that I asked in my heart was to allow me to speak to her a second moment. My fear had defeated me from my quest in my first moment, so I fell to my knees.

Just one more second moment . . .please?

Death, what . . .a . . .relief.

What . . .a . . .relief.

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© 2021 Kenneth Avery

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