A Sentiment.

Of the many hardships that face two bodies in love, none can be more so pleasurably frustrating and rewarding as the distance that separates, and in there, binds those two, who may think one another to be a rewarding spectacle, should the present and the future unite them.

It had begun as a chance encounter - somewhere along spinning the wheel and gazing idly - through a passage of time during which one is a solitary reaper, but how beautiful might this stroke of hand become, should from such a wayward action, arise an encounter with someone who you think is 'light, delightful, and a good representation of 'pretty' '.

There was the notion that there was nothing but an assurance, that each other's company would magnanimously coddle one's spirit, lift it, and then bring it back down, into a hammock of safety and comfort, such they knew to be the case, Georgia and Lockhart. There was no 'immediate' love present, and yet, when they had first come to know each other, they may have known to a sample degree, that they were enough, more than, they were altogether humble and beautiful, such was the grace each other's words provided their both selves. They rejoiced in having found 'a batch mate'. Lockhart called them 'soul mates'. Georgia wasn't so sure. She thought it was enough pleasantness to have a company which reassured her of her beauty, of her honesty, and thought little of a pre-destined outcome that Lockhart often told her their encounter to be.

They had technology to thank, of course, for living beyond a few oceans, connected virtue cable lines that ran through the house, and therefore gave one the potential to exist with someone in Japan - for Lockhart, and someone in America - for Georgia, it was a price not too big to pay to have counted oneself as indulgers in one of humanities many endeavours. There was something oddly unsettling about the un-pretentiousness that seemed to ask itself to be laid as foundation between the pair right from the start. There was only to give, and little, if only on the occasional Sundays, did they wish to take from the other. Lockhart was a second-generation eighteen-year-old, green-eyed seeker, whose ambitions said they wished to be free. And Georgia, she would have been a distant relative once upon a time, having washed herself ashore to a land she knew not much of, having exhausted her patience with dear America. She studied French now, at a university somewhere on the outskirts of Tokyo, and beyond Lockhart, her ties to America appeared at a loss for words.

Such information of both they each gleaned a month down the barrel of conversation they had jumped into, for it became apparent, that in the ensuing first moments in which they found each other, they cared little for credentials, and often the words would take hold, lead them to avenues they both hadn't explored, and, as a result, it was often an excited pair that traversed many plains they each may have not derived any a learning from, such was the strength of their company - they found always a terrain to breach, a marsh or a sandy beach which could be used to indulge further in each other's bosoms. Such was one separate pair of Georgia and Lockhart.

When comfort brought them close, the odd fraught prospered nothing more than a feigned disdainful chuckle, either party un-eager to hold against the other, a sin or a folly, little or ambitious. They felt one piece, not two meant to be fit together. They thought their thoughts to be awfully similar, and in there, perhaps, they thought heartily, was the greatest danger. To run out of ideas to speak some day, should at a point their two worlds merge and mesh into an uniformity, and therefore bring them upon a common utterance, and therefore consequence an amused chuckle, but they knew this would not have been an unlikely scenario, such they knew each other to be of the same ilk.

She fell in love with him somewhere in the middle of the third day, and him, the very instant he'd laid eyes on her speech that came through the screen of his reliable laptop computer, but he knew that to betray her of such information, at least until they met, would not constitute on his part a grave erroneous undertaking, but, a means to spare himself blushes, and no more. He knew, as he knew the sun to shine, not a doubt, that there no such thing as two people ' meant to be', rather, it seemed oddly a settled matter, that such should be the case with Georgia, for anything else would have resembled a most puzzlesome matter. A matter one may have studied if one were keen on developing a curiosity.

As for Georgia, she loved him pure and simple. She knew time was a finite commodity, and little could be done other than to pursue her whim- there no room for any kind of fear, trespass or even an anxiety, there, simply, a companion whom she enjoyed immensely him calling her 'a blooming flower on a Sunday morning.'

There was little to be conducted other than magic, when their eyes would meet someday, and they arranged such a place to be a small village in Japan, far away from a bustle, a stream nearby, and a tea shop, and had there been a city in its place, there seemed no threat to a potentially meeting pair too, for such a pair as may Georgia and Lockhart be. It came to whispers of arrangements, and then permitting them each giddy excitement, for to meet someone you know to be yours, is no less a masterpiece than one can conjure as a form.

He arrived in that village on the train, having read his heart out on the journey, and her, she had drunk tea that morning, light tea, warm, placed under the sunlight, and herself with it too, so that she might come to harbour a natural glow as she came to meet a certain boy. No local would have dared to intrude even upon two such apparent wildering beasts, who would graze their grounds for a mercy, and in there, somewhere, tell each other to be theirs.

Georgia had purple eyes, and wore a blue frock: the kind of blue you couldn't describe as any shade, but nevertheless, a not so strong blue, and she stood waiting for her friend, who had lent to her a description of himself - golden locks, green eyes, a zit ridden face, and an ambitious smile, that would have done well to cover up any flaws Lockhart may have thought he held. She had told him of her own self, painting sparingly a portrait of honesty and cumbersome virtue, and in there Lockhart had gleaned that she may have possessed a gentle wash to her tone, a kind of sorrow in her eyes that isn't a tribute to sadness, but only the gentility that comes from being someone some may fall madly in love with. He thought her then, through such a passage of imagination, to be supremely ideal.

And it was a plain meeting. He walked towards her, having subtracted slightly that ambitious smile, for he knew honesty was an acumen that would do well in such an arena, and her- she simply waited in her not so strong blue dress, her very own smile an encourager mightiest.

They shook hands, a slight kind of hug, whispered their names to each other. And then, after having done such a great service to each other, they wished to do further, and that is when they walked to the tea-shop. They sat next to each other at an angle, and Lockhart placed a firm hand on hers, on the table, reassuring her, that life was so wonderful, and in this finite world, with odds a number certainly, there seemed to be a furiously competent magician at hand, to have conjured up such spectacle as he knew him to enjoy, and wished her enjoyment the same. Georgia knew not what to say, but there knew, he was being what one terms 'cheesy' nowadays. And in there, knowing him to have made an attempt, Georgia knew, as she felt that hand caress her, that the tea that was about to arrive, it would be a sweet tea, and that no local would think them to be outsiders, but rather, have them as their own, to share in such a happiness.