she observes the swimmers and sunbathers with the air of a queen deposed. once unconcerned for her own future who dabbled in matters of international policy, now forced to take a plebeian job to ensure her well being. and as a demoted executive might, she rules her fiefdom rigidly, at her will and whims and in strict accordance with the rule of law. yet something in her manner betrays an interest, a curiosity in her subjects. its as if now, with her lowered status, she sees them in new light and with a new respect. cracks in her haughty facade reveal a person, like the rest of us, who is trying to get a grip on her new life and how she fits in this foreign world. it appears that she wants a king, not a well bred monarch, but a wise to the world commoner who can ease her transition and respect her heritage. but how can she open the gates to one, and not all, and how to know which one? she eyes us hoi polloi, wondering for the first time perhaps, who we really are.

she sits there, poker faced, forcing visitors to sign her book, her stony manner betrayed by her cherub's countenance. she is young and her face smooth and round. like a toddler's, but with tired eyes. the sun gives her the permanent appearance of a flush. its as if she is ever embarrassed of what she has come to. her impression is further befuddled as she rises to walk. she has the body of a nymph. toned legs from use, not exercise. they dont ripple or bulge with muscle, but are smooth and steady. when she walks they carry her with no more effort than a breeze carries a leaf. she nearly floats, with legs to merely set the path. those legs, like her torso, are colored by the sun to an auburn glow, tinted pink at the end of the day. she sucks in her belly, ever so slightly, a chink in her armor of arrogance. she cares what we think, at least to some degree, and that small fact, unnoticed by most, makes her human in the eyes of those that do. presiding above her golden curves lie the two haves of a globe split to for her breasts. they float, defying gravity and challenging men in the vicinity to look without being caught by her fierce eyes.

i watch her through my dark glasses between passages in my book. i think she knows, and allows it, if not encouraging it, in fleeting glances my way. i admire her from my lounge chair. i wonder what fills her head. i crave access to her world. not like a drowning man craves air, but like a child craves ice cream. i want to know her mind and her body. id like to slip though that chink in her armor, help her through our world, if only, and most probably, briefly. like two roads we might join to bridge a river, then split on the far shore, our combination achieving what neither alone could do, but splitting unceremoniously, casually, and easily once the task is completed to return to our pre-stream headings, a bit wiser and richer.