It happened with no real intention. No interference of the gods. She was just there. At the river, as always.

He did not know which day it first happened. It could have been the same Wednesday he bought lemons from the vendor close to his office. It could have been the Thursday back in April when he saved that poor moth being destroyed by his asshole cat. Come to think of it, it could have been the Sunday he was at the beach, staring into the sand to avoid eye contact with any thing that spoke the same language as him. It could have been any of those days, but whichever one it was, it happened. There, at the river.

He didn’t have a dog, but he liked going to the dog park and see nothing but happy faces, the dogs that is. Humans don’t see real happiness. As he was making his way alongside the river, he tried to not think. It was his cross to bear, thinking too much about nothing and nothing consumed him. Nothing was heavy and he often thought if he had to jump in the river, the nothingness within would drag him down like a heavy rock. She was at the bend, sitting on a bench and she had auburn hair, not natural and piercing blue eyes. Her skin was milk and her lips stained with a red lipstick. Her hair was wild and she sat kind of crossed legged on the bench, reading a book and eating a peach, messing juice all over her book and hands and hair. She seemed to love the mess and stickiness of a peach. Of life. She didn’t have a dog with her, but every now and again she would look up and smile at the dogs that lovingly run up to her. Her exposed arms were covered in tattoos, all flowers and pretty things. He wanted to study her. He wanted to ask her about each and every tattoo that covered her hurt and joy on her skin. She did not notice him and if she did, she didn’t show it. A dog came full speed charging at him and for the second he was in the world of the dog, she was gone. Even though he frantically looked around, she was gone, just like that. The bench had wet patches of peach juice and when he sat in the spot she sat, he smelled orange, vanilla and something sweet like jasmine. That is what her name will be, Jasmine.

He got onto his bicycle and took the road home. He thought about Jasmine. The river girl. The tattoo girl with milk skin and hair that seems to be alive. Her smell was perfect paradise. He thought back to the time when perfect and paradise was his to bathe in. It wasn’t in his nature to linger in all of the yesterday stuff, but by god, Jasmine awakened something in his dull world. When his head hit the pillow that night, he already knew he had to go back to the dog park every day, until paradise can be felt again. Until he can see Jasmine again. Until, Jasmine can see him.