The Girl in the Park

I was sitting alone on a park bench when she sauntered by, the spring sun singeing the air with an intense warmth.  She was wearing a summertime dress, taking in the beauty of the cloudless sky overhead.  She walked gracefully, timed with the beat of the song playing on her iPod.  Her brown eyes spoke volumes about her self-confidence – they were not afraid to scour the surroundings, studying the blue jays chase each other from oak tree to maple or smiling at the elderly couple that was holding hands across the lake in their leisure time – so her eyes gleamed with steadfast praise for the stability in her life.

As her flip flops clicked down the path, I looked up at the raucous distracting me from my Saturday morning reading.  When my eyes rose up, she was already catching a glimpse of me.  My gray eyes met the path of hers and there remained locked.  I dared not look away – I couldn’t let her see the sudden, raging nervousness undulating through my nerves.  Her dress, a black silhouette laced with large, navy blue flower petals, added to the beauty that captivated my then tunnel vision.  The sun, the fire heating the crock pot, shined off of her fair complexion and her shoulder length, straight brown hair.

The more each of our eyes refused to budge, the greater the intensity consumed us.  She was coming closer.  Was she going to say something to say something to me?  Was she planning a funny comment?  Was she the shy type?  She smirked as her steps brought her much closer.  My thoughts broke into a cold sweat, but my countenance was an immovable mountain. 

She was in front of me now and her lips cracked an, “I know something you don’t know” smirk.  I flipped my bookmark into my book and jumped before the timing of her steps forced her to cast her gaze elsewhere.  “How tough are the cops in this city on jaywalkers?”  I asked.  “I’ve got a long jaywalking rap sheet and I can’t afford another bust.”  She stopped in her place, overcome by a friendly burst of laughter.

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