It was the cigarette -tragic that they’re still sexy or at least visually infectious; by your side, seemingly unwanted, except the angle it held between your second and third fingers was too careful.
I didn’t even have to slide my gaze to take in your green jeans, ruthlessly pegged above double monk straps in well-tended russet leather. Sunday noon. I felt these must be your favorites, what was at hand on the floor to shrug into and dash out the door for brunch. Or that’s the story your casually coordinated French Terry cardy seemed to be trying to tell, elbow-patched though it was.
Date or mate? I couldn’t tell, but I wouldn’t blame anyone falling for your companion’s rockstar length ginger hair, lofting softly in that day’s unexpectedly warm breeze. You seemed to be in conversation though I don’t recall seeing your lips move. His poise, your buzz making point counterpoint, interrupting in excited revelation.
The walk man cometh. You crossed the street. My light changed. I hope you had a good day.