Her abundant blonde curls bound together with a black ribbon. She smiles at me and I look into her sparkling eyes. She's gorgeous as ever and she knows how to emphasize her natural beauty, never exaggerated, always just right.
The table wobbles under my elbow, we're dangerously close to the water. The restaurant's pavement is crowded, a warm sun shines upon the canal and spring fills the air with a frivolous, careless atmosphere. Here we are, below street level, centimeters from the tiny waves created by an empty tour boat. The scenery is marvelous, but I have eye for a greater beauty.
Her hair is so light that I always thought her skin to be rather dark, yet it isn't. It's the wealth of her locks that makes her so exotic and mysterious. I have known her for years now, but never as much as I wanted to. What can I ask that I do not know yet? Adventurous and educated, intelligent and independent...
She tells me about her latest adventure. She has been hunting for artifacts in Greece. She tells me about the tiny splinters of stone they found, but doesn't seem to realize that Helen of Sparta is but a shadow compared to her. Or does she?
We leave for the cinema, to see how Hollywood portrays those old days. Is it a coincidence that we picked this film?
The hall is crowded and the paths narrow. A man needs to get to his seat next to us. I lay my hand upon the arm-rest to get up, but to late I feel her soft hand. The touch is too rough to be gentle, yet she does not pull her finger away from under my heavy palm.

Afterwards we go to a pub. I look into her eyes and she looks into mine. I can see every pretty detail of her face and I wish the evening could last forever. Did I compare her to Helen of Sparta? She, the girl who adores myth and archeology? She is second to Aphrodite only, a goddess of beauty with a mind blessed by Athena. We talk of a thousand things and I notice she mirrors my own movements. We take another drink and smile at eachother in the dim light, surrounded by renaissance paintings depicting myth and legend.

Then at last we have to go home. We walk to her bicycle and wait. Now is the moment, I know. In a film I would lean forward and kiss her gently on her lips. But this is not a film. I once, years ago, told her how I fancied her and the answer was sweet and laconic, but clear... I dare not touch her. We look at eachother, expectingly. Perhaps it is my own mind which painted this cinematic picture. Perhaps she's just a friend waiting for a swift goodbye. Yet perhaps there is a spark that lightened a greater fire?
I do not know and wish her goodnight from a distance. Then we go our own way and I walk towards the train with a smile upon my face...