The Gala

In my mind, I call her Winter; she is cold but pretty. She has an adorable arrangement of birthmarks that she wears like Donatella wore Versace. We Share stolen moments amongst all the guests she invited to dinner. Her friend to the left is holding a mirror. The fact that she is already beautiful she can't even consider. 

Winter stands by the piano, looking at her reflection. She cannot not be lovely. The melodic notes play below her, blanketed in heavy rainfall hitting the city streets just outside the window pane. No pressure. Just gray clouds seeping outside and inside as if the stare she gave was nature itself sending smoke signals. 

I stalked her through the swinging double doors of the bustling restaurant. She bends down to adjust the strap of her heel, and how she moves her hair out of her face and laughs from across the room defies gravity. Time seemed to dance around us, I wanted to speak to her, but she could only hear the gentle hum of conversation and vibrant Jazz music playing in the background. 

Eighty-six the truffle Chef, is all I hear from a distance. The first thing I grew to love about working in the kitchen of this busy restaurant was the organized chaos. It's an ample, well-lit space with stainless steel surfaces and equipment lining the walls. I'm in the heart of the kitchen, standing next to the head chef, Julian, as the delightful aroma of freshly cooked dishes envelops me.

Julian is wearing a pristine white chef's coat, a passionate and skilled individual who commands that the lineup is ready with precision and flair. Around Julian is a team of line cooks, and I, his sous chef, each focused on making art or something close to it.

The atmosphere is intense, yet there's a sense of camaraderie among the kitchen staff, a bond forged through countless hours of collaboration and a shared passion for creating culinary ingenuity.

At that moment, a man walks towards the bar and orders a steak. The bartender replies, "How would you like that cooked?" The man says, "Oh, just like with insults, Chef's choice." They share a laugh.

The sound of printed tickets gently starts swishing in, like leaves rustling on a breezy night. In Winter's section, table four ordered saffron risotto with forest mushrooms, a salmon fillet with Dutch carrot puree, medium rare, a Spring carbonara, and the restaurant's self-made "The Gala" chicken salad. 

So eager to know which dish she ordered so she could have that perfect bite, I was on a mission to make every plate perfect. I start to daydream about Winter and her eye' color and imagine if they change shades in the sun. I envisioned hugging her and kissing her forehead while she slept. Grabbing her neck gently. I'm confident that's how it goes. I can't let go. 

 I thought to myself: 

Is this what it feels like to truly admire someone? 

To behold them and be filled with influence, to revel in their charm, so much so that all your barriers collapse and you willingly embrace any ache or affliction, driven to honor their existence with your effort and expression.

I wanted to speak to her but felt divided by a crowd of people and the ambient lighting. Winter was the girl out of a magazine, and if I did not take this opportunity to know her real name. I was sure it would only keep me up at night like an owl in its natural habitat showing nocturnal behavior. I could feel my heart beat violently, Her frame flawlessly pleasing in that little black dress, exuding elegance—a captivating embodiment of femininity.

Like sharks lurking in the sea, the dapper gentlemen at the restaurant started to surround her. Each one offers compliments and cocktails in a subtle dance of courtship. One gentleman leaned against the vintage accent table, sporting a tailored navy suit that perfectly complemented his chiseled jawline and neatly styled dark hair.

She, however, seemed unaffected by his advances. While the men hoped to win her favor, she remained with quiet confidence.

Go figure, A woman who doesn't even know how beautiful she is.

Wow, a rare gem you will hardly ever find. 

Amidst the inviting attention, our eyes met. 

She eventually fights them off, walks up, reaches out her hand, and introduces herself to me. 

Hi, I'm Isabella, Isabella Hope.

I want to speak to her but can't, so I don't let go.

When I see her smile, my eyes dilate, and I am captivated even more by her pretty. 

Hi, I'm Victor, Victor Park

How was the food? What was your dish of choice? 

I ordered the fish, and it was like having dinner in the sky.

We engage in witty banter, flirty glances, and the world outside seems to fade away. The restaurant becomes a backdrop to our connection, and at that moment, In the quiet cadence of our conversation, she whispers, "Tell me, what constellation do you carry within?

I'm in a swirling galaxy of hope, hope. No pun intended, I replied, and you? 

They say that the tidal forces distort their shapes when stars approach each other. The clash generates a burst of energy and releases a display of light, which is why stars shine so brightly. 

That's me. I'm the shooting star. 

I looked at her with such amazement and a deep male gaze that she blushed. 

It was then that moment I saw her. Her eyes were golden, like honey; they were deep and rich with warm tones ranging from yellow and amber to light shades of brown, muddling my sense of direction.

And as the night deepened, I knew this casual encounter was not mere happenstance.

Felt more like our first date and the summer romance of 1989. 

She leaned in for a kiss on the cheek just because.

Her sweet scent was like the view of an air balloon up above.

Like the wandering wings and freedom bliss of a dove,

From an unlikely beginning, it was nothing until it was.