Zara She definitely went to his college. Definitely, she looked so familiar. She was paradisiacal, dancing away, carelessly like some quixotic version of real #life. She dressed divinely, her skirt, just to the right seductive length, her high-heels, effortless yet should be crippling. Locked in that sweaty nightclub, yet her hair; long, dark and shinning, tumbling down her figure sitting just on the middle of her back. She was with a group of friends all embracing the religion of the young, lost in the beats and riffs of the music. He stood, and watched her, soaking her in. Slowly, sipping his drink until the taste of Vodka was nullified and diluted by the melted ice. Without realising she was firmly rooting herself deeply into his subconscious, taking over his mind. He initially, on the night, put it down to a heady concoction of teenage lust and sexual attraction being considerably heightened by too much alcohol. But it had to be clearly more than that. It’s something primal and yet ethereal, the fact that someone can consume your attention within a few seconds of looking at them. That one person can make you rush inside, send you into paroxysms, make you into a walking cliché. Just another Romeo, like millions before you and after you, but this is special, and nothing like as wrenching as anyone has felt before. Her face was emblazoned in his dreams as the most memorable thing. She had; glorious dark eyes, prevalent cheek-bones, a smile that was only made better by the sumptuous look of her full, pretty lips. She had that look of many a beautiful English girl, the English Rose. It’s something distinctive about English girls and something that all English boys are heavily grateful.