Prose #1: The Other Woman
She was the portrait every one stopped to see just one more time before leaving the museum.
She was the Nordic light at dawn; mellow enough to keep you sane, yet distinctive in its presence – leaving you there like an old fool, wanting more.
Words that came out of her mouth were only ever spoken in melodies. But you’d have to hold your guard. Because if you listened close enough, you’d find yourself completely captivated, mouthing pretty sonnets to yourself, day in and day out – all dedicated to her. You’d be drunk on her mouth, her tongue, her ocean of words – your mind and your life would – without your wanting – become infused with the whole persona of one woman – you’d speak like her, smile like her, read the books in her manner.
I knew from the very instant this happened to me – that music, literature, and paintings were all crafts invented to describe women like Alice. And I found myself – for the first time – forgiving him for leaving me. She was the other woman. But she was the better one.
– A. S Nerdrum