I watch her walk, sometimes. She's beautiful - not in a flashy way, no. Only in the way one who sees her the way I do can tell. I see in her the eyes of my mentor - his intelligence, his rigor, his dedication, but also a beauty - wild and untamed, passionate under a veil of cold distance.
I burn for her. I long to walk with her on High Street, at day break, to see the Magdalen broken in the sunrise's gold rays. Perhaps one day. For now it is the days of endless, restless research at the Bodlean, only interrupted by momentary glimpses at the ceiling, daydreams soon ending on a return to the delightful smell of old paper, manipulated with care.
For now, it is the walks to and from college in Oxford's golden alleys, the strict quad of Wadham, the gothic glory of Merton. Sometimes I think of High Table. I would like to see her there, at my side, in one of those classic black dresses that seem made of one single piece of fabric, and cut only for the woman wearing them. Only diamonds her ears - she needs nothing to shine.
From time to time I look at her - stolen glimpses. So cold her beauty, so ardent her spirit. I long to touch a flutter of her hair with just a touch - as if to verify that a woman so perfect does indeed exist.
The nights are tormented - cold. I do not sleep well. Sometimes the shutters flap, and I shudder - there are fears that Helen is in danger, more even than fears for myself. To counter them, I recall the day - the moments of grace she bestows on me like rare and precious jewels.
Her laughter - so girlish and light, with her voice so serious. Her accent. Her dark hair and the way she wears it in such a strict coil. Her hands and their grace as she annotates her research with focused dedication.
Today was a good day. Tomorrow, we leave for Istanbul.