On the eleventh day of spring, I catch a man eyeing the woman walking out of the building. Mini skirt, silk (or so) blouse, slightly furrowed brows. She is moss-framed, dressed to be looked at, and has a feigned sheer of oblivion.
(more) He's waiting for someone else. He looks like the sweet, pudgy, GMU types. Yes, there's no chance he isn't already involved.
But for a moment, there are alternative stormpaths flashing in his head. And she probably knows.(less)