IMOGEN
I enjoyed looking at my Imogen. She was a perfect example of the feminine form - a modern-day Helen of Troy, slender and so graceful that, whenever she was nearby, attention could fall nowhere else. Her grey eyes were large and glassy; even as the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose, they glistened in the dark. Left only with her silhouette, I followed the smooth line from her high cheekbones down to the slight curve where jaw- line became neck, teasingly leading me to her sharp clavicle, fragile and arresting. I vaguely heard the play begin - something about households, dignity and Verona - but most of it was lost to me. The heavily powdered figure standing centre-stage was shouting her lines and she seemed to be making little sense anyway. Imogen was engrossed in the actress’s every word, and the corners of her red lips turned downwards into a melancholy smile of appreciation. I comfortingly brushed my elbow against hers, placing it firmly on the velvet armrest. She glanced down and placed her arm on her lap. I first met Imogen a couple of months ago under Manhattan Bridge when she was walking Monty, her bounding labrador, down Furman Street. Following the riverside path at six in the morning often meant the two of them were alone and able to peacefully appreciate the unparalleled views of the concrete jungle growing on the opposite side of the East River. On the few occasions she didn’t wrap up warm enough, she would visibly shiver as the salty caress of the air sprinkled a fine mist collected from the water flowing in from Long Island Bay. I frequently walked the same path and would see them together, stopping every now and then when Monty wanted to mark his territory. Whenever they encountered a half-jogging individual desperate
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