I couldn’t say what it was about you—the long red hair; the narrow waist; the full, rounded breasts. All the parts and whole of you are perfect. You’re a bolt of lightning and a bomb explosion rolled into one. I can’t get you out of my mind. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just you and me.

From the flyer, I found out where you planned to be today, so I rose early and drove into town. Now, as I parked on the city side street, I watched you duck into the warehouse space where there was an art exhibit. I hunkered down in my car and waited for a half hour.

Finally, you emerged with a bag and hurried toward the Jeep. So carefree. So perfect. I actually had butterflies in my gut, and the little bastards were gnawing away.

As I got out of my car, your phone rang, and balancing an artist’s portfolio case, you fished it from the side pocket of a black leather purse. “Hello? Oh yeah, that’s me.” You sounded upbeat, but a little distant. “I won’t be late. I’ll be there in an hour.”

When the call ended and you reached for the Jeep’s door handle, I sensed it was a now-or-never moment. Sink or swim. “Excuse me.” You turned, a smile on your face. There was no hint of suspicion or worry, which was a little troubling to me. A girl can’t be too careful in this world. “I’m hoping you can give me directions.”

Wide blue eyes brightened. “I’ll try.”

I could smell your perfume, see the small hoop earrings dangling, and hear your shallow breathing. The only senses missing were touch and taste, but it was too soon for that.

“I’m trying to get to Cary Street,” I said. “You’ll think I’m a fool because we both know it’s directly across the river.”

“Of course not! Straight up the street, take the first left and then a right. Follow the road across the bridge, and you’ll see the street sign. At that point you can only take a right.”

I trailed your line of sight, but as your head was turned, my gaze dropped to the slender line of your neck. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

“You an artist?” It was such an obvious question it bordered on stupid, but I just needed a few more seconds with you. We’d made a connection, and in this world that was a rare thing.

“That’s the dream,” you said. “But saying and becoming are two different things.”

“I bet you’re pretty talented.”

You chuckled. It was delightful, self-effacing. “Maybe one day.”

“You’re showing your work?”

“Not yet.”

Talking about your art relaxed you. I’d found a sweet spot. “What kind of art?”

“Photography.”

“I bet one day I’ll see your name up in bright lights.”