A Foray

She was sexy and soft, like a passion berry dripping with juice. The photo was slightly ripped, its corners curled, but her smile was still frozen in place. The more I looked at it, the more the image seemed to live. It began to move and take on a life of its own. Meaning crept into her expression and a new history grew up around her. After a while it ceased to be her at all, but instead became something else that I formed from white hot emotion. The interplay of patterns in the vines on the trellis behind her looked like henna on a girls arm, and sunlight through a crystal was shining on the dark-haired gypsy girl, with her cards and her bright eyes and a bloodstone flashing from her deftly moving thoughts and hands. And the smile.