girl in french class.

She was a bore, an absolutely vapid character, but when she spoke french, she became beautiful, delightfully invigorating, intimidatingly distant. Her words meant merely nothing, but they would plie and prance in a string, as a gauze mobile over a child's cradle. I'd stretch the time, embrace her inflections in my amorous ears, a secret affair of sounds and senses. Perhaps this is because she would then silence herself and retreat back into her pale, stained wooden desk with the metal legs and yawn. The dainty rush of air that escaped her lungs sunk densely down around her, irritating my now offended ears. It meant nothing to her, she didn't want any of these subordinates to hold her as highly as she held herself. This cool feast of air led to a fit of coughing but she'd never exit the room to soothe her throat. On she continued in spondaic rhythm of illness, patiently waiting for a queu to leave. I wanted more, wanted it as a sickness, needed her to stop this fit at once and bring back melodious vocals. A word of English breaks the curse and I am immediately out of love with her. I no longer feel the twinge of sensation that breaks over my skin when she utters the romance language. Opening her mouth as if to speak once more, she feels my presence and retreats from the phrase-maker. I am angry with her and my passion reddens, then dies.