Waves

My back aches from laying in this position the Earth has given me permission for. My camouflage ghillie suit is an overripe banana, torn from the hands of trees and knives of rose bushes. The faintest sunlight gleans through the veil of the forest canopy. My rifle butt has worn down my shoulder into ripped jeans and scuffed knees. Movement ahead, finally. I shift my weight to look down at the scope, and the morning dew falls around me like glitter. The collective yawns of the flora waking means a large buck is nearby. I aim my sight onto the clearing ahead as the small tide pool water source ripples from the nearby commotion.

As the creature comes into picture, I hold my breath in disbelief. It is a sight only in fantasy novels, and I blink rapidly, convinced my own eyes lie to me. As if sensing my skepticism, the animal turns to face my direction. The trees frame its figure like a new wardrobe, and I realize I am looking at centaur. A female one too. As tall as a moose, with midnight fur and moonlight skin. Her red hair waves like wildfire, and I am stunned by its intricate beauty. Captivated, I removed my cloak and slowly stood. She smiles, and waves at me, quelling all fear and uncertainty instantly.  I wave back, and beckon her to come towards me, so I can interact with her. She walks playfully, her scent of lilac dizzying, and just as we are about to meet, I hear a noise behind me. It’s another of her kind, waving to her. They gallop away, laughing coyly. I lay down, having committed this cardinal social sin of waving at someone who was not waving at me, and die immediately of embarrassment.