Portrait of a Fallen Angel
Prologue
He watched her prance up the sidewalk and the front porch steps from his car parked down the block. Her beautiful blond hair swayed behind her. He took out his camera and snapped a couple of shots. She turned, as if sensing him, and looked, but he knew his car was parked out of sight. He took a picture of her ever-so-pretty face, formed in a striking expression of curiosity.
She went inside her house and closed the door behind her. He could see her shadowy figure in her basement-bedroom, pulling her tank-top over her head and letting her blond hair flow freely around her shoulders. He took a picture of that as well. He wasn't stalking her. He was loving her from afar.
Now, nearly a year later, he looked at that very picture, the one of her body facing her house, her upper-body turned toward his car, her face looking directly at him and not seeing him. She was beautiful in this picture, in his eyes. He only wished that this was the way he could remember her for always. But she was proof that you can't always get what you wish.