The Parisian train station screams with whistling brakes and slamming, sliding doors. In the midst of the crowd, he holds her with both hands laced at the nape of her neck. Her face is bent skywards, into his eyes, hands clasped at her sides in mock reticence. She speaks, quickly, urgently, relaying instructions. He interrupts, quickly, urgently with thirsty kisses of adoration, as if her mouth wasn’t, just milliseconds before, moving; shaping words instead of affectionate gestures.
His kisses are taking pictures of her face, imprinting a negative of her lips on his in case he has need to develop them later when the originals are out of reach. Her expression is unchanged at every touch, the message communicated in short bursts between pecks until she is done and he has her to himself, no agenda to distract from pure adoration.
They stare, enchanted, alone.
One ugly face into another.
Love is the root of beauty, then.
At the Peak of beauty, a girl may get modelling contracts or everyone staring in a room. She may be confident in a bikini on the beach, get into any club she wants or have a hundred incredible (though notably instagrammed) photos to choose from for the ever important facebook profile picture.
But will she have her kisses photographed by another’s mouth on a train platform?
No. Because Beauty’s boundary is Love’s playground.