In looking away from the woman who wouldn't, couldn't be his wife, he could only sigh with longing... Looking past the glittering, expansive Chicago skyline, his gaze always rested on a downtown loft on Dearborn Street. He thought often of a beautiful Chinese girl with the longest, blackest hair he had ever seen. She was dimmer than a broken bulb, but she could speak fluent French with a fluidity that made the words roll and glide melodically and caused his knees to tremble.
She was a free spirit, a sexually charged rebel whose very existence was a bitter protest against monotony and boredom. Deep inside her soul was a firecracker burning brightly in a sea of urban despair. She was beautiful in every sense of the word, inside and out, and she gracefully lit up the world around her. All the magic in the universe could be witnessed in her carefree laughter.
He found himself falling for her, fast and incredibly, mercilessly hard. Oh, but how she hated him! She hated him with a passion, and the fury with which she hated him only made his foolish heart love her even more.
The best he could hope for was to make her hate him even more, for he'd sooner be loathed with intensity than to never pass through the mysterious passageways of her mind.
He was thousands of miles away now, but he kept an old postcard of Chicago's gleaming spires bathing in the endless sunset. He pulled it out whenever he wished to let his waking dreams wander back to a beautiful Chinese girl on Dearborn Street.
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Chicago skyline painting nt Stephen F. Condren.