Grain of Love (Short Story)

Grain of Love

Waves of murmuring and hushed laughter filled the extravagant ballroom. Women wore exquisite and sumptuous attires that leisurely dragged behind them, their luxurious perfume lingering above the room. The men stood straight with a hand behind their back, suits and tuxedos polished and crisp. The room was elegantly decorated with velvet drapes and finely chosen sculptures and paintings. A colossal chandelier stood above everything, softly lighting the room, allowing it to a have a serene, yet merry atmosphere. I stood at the very back of all of this, holding a plate of aperitifs. I spent my full life watching lords and duchesses spend away entire nights in jazz and sly glances. I could have easily slipped back into the kitchens to rest and asked other eager servants to replace me. Well, there it came, the reason why I chose to endure the throbbing pain in my heels from standing too long.

He entered the room and silence followed him. It was a silence of awe and respect, maybe a hint of profound envy too. My breath was abruptly cut off and the eternal butterflies winged at the pit of my insides. Many, many years have gone by, but I can recall vividly the sensation of a young, racing heart. That night, he wore a black suit, a suit all men were wearing, but on him, it looked alluring and dazzling. His black tousled hair, his deep brown eyes, the laid back smile playing on his lips and the way he walked in such a nonchalant manner. Everything about him seemed soothing. He pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from his pant pocket. Men nodded their heads approvingly while women giggled behind their martinis, he did not even start that people already approached him unconsciously. A mere sound of Bill Strayhorn's latest hit played in the background. He unfolded the paper, straightened it out, the sound of creased parchment resonated through the grand room.

The dampness of night

The frigid sheets

Hear their whispers, you might

Across the pillow, shades of wheat

It went like this for a while, his words flowing around the room, mixing with the feeble jazz notes. I was lost, for a moment I dismissed space and time. His voice sounded like an early morning hymn chanted by celestial beings, each line of his poem sending my mind into a trail of thoughts. It wasn't only what wrote, but the manner he read it. His writing was sometimes ambiguous, but it perpetually amazed folks. Words on the street he was the new auspicious writer. Not only his writing was tastefully thought, but it was exhilarating. If W.B Yeats didn't cross certain barriers, he dauntlessly did. And it worked admirably. Youngsters tilted their heads to his work for the desired delusions of passion

that they were waiting for, while the elders shook their heads at decrepit, short-lived, fleeting love stories they would never tell to their grandchildren.

And in the ephemeral way of everything

You gamble on hope for her

But you are unused to getting

Most of us only lure

Some people near me shook their heads while whispering

''Such talent, but listen to the language! It is quite poor. No stylistic devices, '' one said. ''Oh! He'll never change his ways, he calls it a style! A style! Lack of, maybe, '' another hissed.

The room stayed silent for a mere instant when his voice and words stopped filling the spaces between each one's solitude. Waves of applaud and approvals shattered the quiet. He put the paper back in his pocket and humbly saluted the horde. The words to Glenn Miller's latest song In the Mood submerged the room back into a mirthful ambiance. I could not take my eyes off of him. I was in a daze. I glanced at him from afar, while giving away beverages. The vision I was now staring at brought my hands icier than the drinks I was handing.