The Demoiselle of the South
She was too young, too dark, too sultry, with thick pouty lips in a small but sensual mouth with strangely alluring dimples on either end under the upturned crevices of her smiles. Her dark, almond shaped eyes already knew how to smolder, framed in the luxuriant rolls of raven tresses covering baby fat cheeks.
Her body, still slender, was filling with curves; her young budding breasts gently swelling, still tipped with dark little girl nipples. Her butt and hips were already losing their narrow contours, hinting at premature development and a brilliantly brief season of beauty to be followed by a lifetime of memories and regrets. Her young thighs had already started to thicken but her legs still held the illusion at least of coltish length.
She knew she was beautiful but didn’t know what to do about it yet so she was a bitch; teasing even though she had no idea what her teasing was about and had no ability to deliver on the promises it implied.
She was a ripe fruit too young to pick until the promise became a lost echo of could-have-beens. She would never know the physical delights she was capable of experiencing but was too mentally and emotionally young to perceive.
All hail the Demoiselle of the South, hail and farewell before her bell ever has the chance to toll and her life becomes the wrecked residue of a ball that she will never see and drudgery and despair dog every day of the shadow of a life that almost was but couldn’t be.
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2008; all rights reserved