She sat high above an ocean, looking down at me. A boulder, firm against my cheek, left tiny drops of moister on my skin. I imagined she was speaking (were those silent tears?), in her own moutain-esque way.
Tourists came to gawk at her smooth curves and jagged edges. Deep rumblings constantly shattered the serene atmosphere as vehicles--from planes to boats to motorbikes--disturbed the tiny island.
I overheard several park rangers bemoaning the fact they couldn't move from the States to this newfound paradise. It was everything they'd ever dreamed of--she was their very own Mona Lisa (if the ML had been found instead of created).
Frigid walls made from natural formations were all that met their musings. I wandered farther from the crowds. A man sat among springtime grasses, his demeanor everything a tourist wasn't. The air itself was different. Could it be the ice mountain actually showing some warmth? I must be daft.
"I name you," he announced, charming smile a daring bait, "Beauty and Pleasure." A compliment, I'm sure. But why then, did the skies begin to darken? A raindrop landed on my nose.
The mountain was crying. I glanced up, taking in the beautiful sight her mere presence created--feeling pleasure as my eyes explored each crevice and corner. Perhaps Beauty and Pleasure is all you'll ever be, I whispered.
Years later I heard the impossible had been accomplished, a mountain had been moved. My mountain. No one knows who did it, or where she's gone. Perhaps a new tourist came, swept her from a supposed paradise and renamed her something enchanting like Te Amo. Or perhaps she still plays at Beauty and Pleasure for a different group of self-involved tourists.
Or maybe there never was a mountain on that tiny island anyway.
(I think we're all just a bunch of fucking mountains anyway. Or is it mountains just get fucked over anyway? I haven't quite figured it out. )
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