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Written and copyright © 2011 by Thomas N. Bulkowski. All rights reserved.
Written: September 2001
Estimated reading time: 3 minutes
I Always Notice Such Things
I always notice such things, but this time I missed it.
She started a week after I did and I chanced a glimpse of her walking away, a goddess, a delicate flower floating down the corridor, aching to be caught, an
exquisite fragrance to be savored, but set out by cruel masters on a dangerous mission from which she might never return.
I wanted to meet her.
As I approached her desk, she stood as if I were a foreign dignitary, as if she knew I would ask to play her instrument, to blow across her reed, to make her
vibrate and perform as she had never before. She made me feel like a proud CEO about to hand her an important document.
Her hair was blond -- shoulder length -- and it reminded me of Doris Day with its inward curl. If I was in Hawaii, I would ask to surf that curl, to catch the perfect
wave, to climax out the end of the pipeline before the tons of water came crashing down, to ride her as long as she would have me.
Jennifer's eyes sparkled as large, blue-green orbs perched on the seashore that became my soul. I fell in love with those eyes, that hair, that inviting, come-hither
smile. As her eyes captured my heart, I blushed and fumbled nervously for the paper, but confident that my ploy would work.
Like a fine suit, the parchment I handed her felt tailored-made for such an occasion. At least I could begin a conversation, convince her that I was not an aging,
lumbering sedan, but a young, sleek sports car, begging for a test drive, to push my throttle, to shift my gears, to race my engine and experience how well I performed.
The paper rustled in my hand like leaves tumbling in a breeze, and I worried that the sweat pouring from my fingers would somehow mar the page, and she would think
less of me.
I wanted her to like me.
Her extended hand held fingers strengthened from years of typing, but not fat ones like the lawyer I dated once. No, Jennifer's fingers were slender, fit, and trim. If
she were an author, I would want to be her book if only to feel those fingers turn my pages, to live the words she wrote, to caress the thoughts she chose to pen.
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My eyes focused past her fingers to the desk beyond, to the flat top where the toils of man lay displayed for all to see. There, tossed about like planes upon a carrier's
deck were the framed pictures, the fond memories she chose to share, to let others catch a glimpse of her heart.
Instead, I saw a moonscape filled with dark craters, long shadows, and sharp, angled cuts. My eyes narrowed and the focus returned to her hand, the one grasping my page,
but strangling my heart. I looked up and saw her smiling eyes melt to wonder, her lips curl down and frown.
As she turned the blank page toward me, I caught the reflection of the gleaming yellow band, imagined the attached stone delicately carved from some hidden recess in
the earth but now hers to command.
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I snatched my paper, spun on my heels and walked away without uttering a word. I could feel her eyes igniting the drenching, dripping sweat cascading down my back,
felt the boiling blood rush to my face and imagined her reaching up and tussling her sensuous hair, smiling, snickering, laughing.
I always notice such things, but this time I missed it. I never fool around, and she was married.
The End
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-- Thomas Bulkowski
See Also
- Green Soap. Reading time: 1 minute. This story is about getting a kid to wash his hands.
- Red Truck. Reading time: 1 minute. This story is about what happens to a kid's toy truck.
- That which cannot be said. Reading time: 7 minutes. Lovers discover a common connection between them.
- Twenty at a Time. Reading time: 5 minutes. A CEO steals money and has to repay it in an unusual way.
- What Does Bequeath Mean? Reading time: 5 minutes. A little girls believes she's a princess.
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Written and copyright © 2011 by Thomas N. Bulkowski. All rights reserved. Do not make fun of another man's religion. It may be the only thing preventing him from killing you. -- Lazarus Long
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