Her prompt mind ran through the bundle of possibilities—did she finally find him? The man she had stopped looking for a few years back? The dream of being happy, the one she had lost hope for long time ago? and now, as she held the cold lifeless phone in the palm of her hands, she imagined him doing the same trying to picture his face.
He would have a sincere smile on his face, a beautiful one and eyes that are loaded with innocence and purity. She knew this inherently, being naturally trusting herself. Preconsciously, she knew this wasn’t “just a fling”, it was the real thing, it was love, once again, knocking on her door, and when she wouldn’t open, it would come through the window, straight into her heart and soul.
Even now, as she pushed an errant strand of brown hair behind her ear she worried he would know, distinctively, what she was feeling. To be thought of as simply a beautiful woman was bridling, unthinkable. But she was beautiful… fatally, stunningly prepossessing. Yet the genuine and unique relationship she commanded deepened the yearnings of her heart… to let it open, to let someone in.
She’s a writer. That’s what writers do, they imagine how people behave. She had to admit that she had noticed him. Writers do that… Notice people. She saw that he wore that same burdened look on his face, so she took her chances.
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