Oh Sweet Helena!

When I was a young man, many untruths reigned freely in my troubled mind. Despite my father’s wisdom, I regularly mistook any fleeting glance from a lady to be signs of unrequited love. The passions that raged within me from these accidental moments would be quelled only by drowning them later in wine, when I would writhe in miserable anguish on the study floor, red sediment staining my lips from their familiar hold on the bottle.

Helena was by far the most thirst-inducing of all the nymphs of my youth. Oh sweet Helena, forgive my foolishness!



I met her casually one afternoon, through a mutual friend. Helena was in the school orchestra with my dear chum Stevenson, both struggling to overcome the cello’s complexities. They were on their way to practice when Stevenson and I met up to exchange some class materials.

And then I saw her.

She had the most beautiful hair, gently curling amber flowing delicately around a porcelain oval. Her eyes, liquid topaz orbs, were set elegantly above a pixie nose and full, scarlet lips.

Her gaze met mine. My heart froze, then pounded double-time to compensate. I felt at once a connection as deep as the forces that keep the stars in their orbits and a shame as piercing as a child’s when caught snooping in the teacher’s desk.

Confused by these powerful emotions I took the school notes from Stevenson, bowed to Helena as one might to a duchess, and scurried off into the afternoon.

But those notes went unread that day, as I instead staggered from the road into the woods, eyes scanning frantically but seeing nothing. Nothing, except that angelic face and those all-knowing sky-blue eyes! I must have stumbled against some rock or tree and replayed those brief moments perhaps hundreds of times, because I recall that my mother was aghast at the state of my dress and the hour of my return.

Eventually my studies resumed their place of importance and Helena faded slightly from my mind. I met her again a few weeks later, though this time on different terms.

…

What was that, dear reader? You have heard similar stories too many times already? I shall summarize quickly then.

I contrived ways of accidentally happening upon Helena more and more often until she grew accustomed to my gruffness and I to her grace. Many an autumnal afternoon was spent examining the world around us, but never did I quite feel comfortable with her. I was always slightly on edge, conflictingly on both the offence and the defence, never quite confident. How could a youth commune with a goddess?

In the end she left me, and I cried for days, for weeks. To make matters worse I had forsaken my companion Stevenson during my obsession, so when that sorrowful moment of parting came, I was completely alone. The story is bitter and I would need another bottle of gin to tell it to you properly, so desperate are the feelings that well up in my breast.

Oh sweet Helena! Where are you now?