So she thought she had him all figured out, like the rest. Wasn't she by now accustomed to meeting a million of this kind every other day now. The moment someone showed who he or she was, the moment they let down their guard and got all plain and simple, as the poor things were, that was the moment she lost all human interest in them. A read book, an open page, a fallen leaf, a glass of water..These were simple things. Simple everyday things. These didn't need exertion on her part. But a novel, a memoir, a poem from the depths of being and understanding, a dried parched leaf with only traces of fiber showing there once was something there that resembled life, the ocean..These were more her. These were the things likely to hold her interest. What story does that fallen leaf tell you. What secrets of time does the ocean whisper. What did the author want you to see when she spelt out her emotions unabashedly for all to see. What mystery does your heart hold. What ability does your mind have, that your eyes shield so smartly, letting only flashes of brilliance escape occasionally, thinking that no one would've caught them anyway. It was that spark and that spark alone that kept her interest in people. The social niceties with all others were just an obligation. The social price one pays for being in a society. Not that she was mean to anyone, not that she meant harm. Neither was she prone to ridiculing someone nor shunning some old hag. She was the friend of all, foe of none, unless by your own making. She hated none, loved some. But in all these people, her kind, she found only few.
Crave as she might, wish as she might, her kind, she found, were but few. It needed a different bent of mind. A certain madness, if I may say so. A certain agility, a swiftness of mind only few can claim and a sparkling wit very few possess. This she craved and seldom found. And this, this young man, certainly promised naught. So off, she wrote him and bothered not, to dig deeper or search harder. He was, for that matter, a simple bloke. A common fellow with no sharp stroke, of mind or body or language or wit. And so she wrote him off, with good reason, she thought.
