Bridgett Whyte

The scarf slides off the woman’s shoulders, onto her chair. Not content there, it floats to the floor in a gust of wind as the café door opens. From the corner table a man sits watching. He wants to pick up the scarf, make a move. He must hurry before someone else does. He hesitates.

The café door opens again, and the wind stirs him into action. With a ballet performer’s grace his hand scoops up the scarf. He stops, immersed, silky sensation caressing his fingers. With deliberate longing he raises his hand and then his eyes to the woman.

(100 words)

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