The next evening I stood in the backyard gazing skyward. The stars were unusually visible, and I had no problem discerning a satellite orbiting overhead. I figured it was probably the space station, but of course I couldn’t be sure. I pondered the situation as the white speck drifted slowly toward the northeast. Hadn’t I observed this same event the night before? That, I figured, was entirely possible, but the space station viewed at the same location and same time on two separate nights? It was time to go to bed and forget the whole thing; in a few moments I would be fast asleep.

********************************

My boss rose from his desk, my report hanging from his left hand.

“You’ve included some mighty fine drawings in this summary, Nathan.” He flipped the packet into his out box. “I’ll get this over to production before the end of the day.”

He moseyed toward his chair. “Anything bothering you? You look a bit dumbfounded.”

“Uh, no, sir,” I shook my head. I swiveled about in my chair. “Well, actually, there is something I should tell you…”

*****************************

The next evening I wandered outside on yet another clear, star-filled night. I found a patio chair and waited for the spectacle that I was sure would unfold in a few short moments. Twenty minutes passed, and then twenty more. I grew sleepy. I rose to turn in when something caught my eye near the horizon. There came a long, low, drone, and then an explosion. A mushroom cloud enveloped the distant northwestern sky. Dallas, I questioned?

I rushed inside the house and into the bedroom, awaiting what I assumed was the inevitable: a cataclysmic explosion much closer to home. I waited, laying my head on the pillow. Nothing came: no flash, no explosion. I grew weary, awaking briefly just as the walls and windows blew in.

“Production seems to think your work may earn our company an achievement award, possibly even a Pulitzer.” My boss sat, staring ahead, apparently awaiting my reply.

“Sir, I’ve got to admit I’m not sure why a report I may not even have written would earn such honors.”

The boss folded his hands on the desk. “And why is that, Nathan?”

“Sir, I need to tell you the truth. I didn’t think any of this around us was real until I went home last night. After what happened there I don’t think there’ll be any home to go to.” I leaned forward. “You see, I thought this: you and I and everything here, was a dream, but last night I think I lost touch with what I assumed was reality.” I felt my eyes mist. “It was that satellite I kept seeing. It didn’t show up last night. Then came the explosion, the cataclysmic bomb.”

My boss drew a breath. “So, you’re saying this is a dream and last night you lost what you thought was reality?” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Nathan. You can stay here with us.” He reached across the desk, grabbing my hand in reassurance. “One thing though, just what is a satellite?”

Stephen Bixbee had served as senior weather forecaster for the National Weather Service for thirty years in Dallas. He assumed his retirement that prior year would put an end to any further close encounters with the severe and sometimes unpredictable weather that occurred over Texas. However, the Energy Operations Center had enlisted him for his as-needed weather advice, and thus, gave him a call when their primary forecaster, Brett Thompson, became ill.

Lead energy advisor, Shelly Berman, entered their weather office to find Stephen pulling several posted notes from his computer. “Hello, I’m Shelly Berman.” She reached out her slender arm and Stephen waved. “What’s your name?” Shelly asked.

“Bixbee, Stephen Bixbee. Folks at the Dallas NWS office always called me Bixbee, sort of rolls off your tongue, you know.”

“Okay, Bixbee, just call me Shelly. This is a heck of a time for our lead meteorologist to be out sick, but we hear from Dallas that you were one of its finest forecasters.” She pointed to the notes in Bixbee’s hand. “Just what are those, Stephen, uh, Bixbee?”

“These are all the warnings your staff meteorologist claims he pasted to your computer screens last week.” He pulled another note from the keyboard. “This one is the most chilling; says the temperature in El Paso is expected to reach 8 degrees this morning, and Houston will reach the low teens by tomorrow.”

“Yes, we’ve been advised of the big chill, Stephen, I mean Bixbee.”

“I’m sure you have, Ms. Berman, uh, Shelly, but an arctic front extending clear from El Paso to Houston north to the Red River is unheard of in these parts. Why, that’s two-hundred thousand square miles! I can’t imagine what kind of energy drain there’ll be two to three days from now.”

“We’re dealing with the situation right now,” Shelly replied. “All you need to tell me is how long the ice will last on those generators and wind turbines out west.”

“I just told you, Ms. Berman, Shelly, that is – three days!”

A gentleman stepped into the office, flagging Shelly to return to the control center. As she did so, Bixbee eyed the last of Thompson’s notes, “If the front pushes south of Houston as I expect, grids 12 through 26 will need to be taken offline for over twenty-four hours in Dallas and Ft. Worth. Should temperatures remain below freezing all the way to the Gulf, grids 36 through 50 will need to be shuttered in Houston for an extended period. Partial shutdowns in Austin and San Antonio will also be necessary.”

Bixbee had just completed his review of the latest weather models, confirming Thompson’s earlier forecast when Shelly returned. “I have a briefing with Mayor Johnson coming at the top of the hour. I’ll need to debrief you, Stephen, sorry, Bixbee, on what to tell him concerning possible rolling blackouts in the Metroplex.”

Bixbee sat down, urging Shelly to pull up a chair opposite his desk. “Ms. Berman, Shelly, I’m afraid you’ll need to get Mayor Turner of Houston on the line as well. You see, your meteorologist warned of a four day freeze across Texas last week.” Bixbee pointed to the posted notes. “Well, Mr. Thompson informed me that several power grids will need to be taken offline permanently in Dallas and Ft. Worth as well as Houston should the ice and snow reach the Gulf Coast.” Bixbee pointed to the weather models, visible on his computer screen. “Thompson was right.”

Shelly rose from her chair, her blonde hair flying about her shoulders as she stomped toward the door. “Neither you nor Brett Thompson will be telling us what to do with our power grids, Mr. Bixbee!”

Bixbee remained in his office with the door open, monitoring Shelly’s conversation with both Mayors Johnson and Turner. He glanced to his phone, noting that another line had become active.

Shelly rushed from the control room to a position near Bixbee’s door. “We’ve got the governor on the line. Says he wants to speak to our meteorologist. That’s you!” She ushered him forward. “Would you care to join us in the control center?”

Bixbee grabbed his notes. “Yes, be happy to, Ms. Berman, Shelly, that is.”

Bixbee followed Shelly into the control center, noting each of the state’s power grids illuminated in various colors on a large board that covered the length of the walls around him.

“Hello, Governor Abbott, this is Stephen Bixbee.”

Shelly strolled away, waiting near a long row of windows facing south toward Dallas. Night had fallen, the southern sky illuminated by the Metroplex. Soon, she glanced up to see Bixbee strolling toward her.

“Did you finish with the governor?”

Bixbee nodded.

“Well, fill me in, Bixbee.” She urged.

Be happy to, Shelly.”

He turned toward the windows, darkness evident across the horizon where the lights of Dallas – Ft. Worth had just shone.

“You turned off Dallas?”

Bixbee nodded again. “Yes, Shelly, along with Ft. Worth, Austin, and Houston.”

A long frown crossed Shelly’s face. “For how long, Bixbee?”

Bixbee strolled toward his office, Shelly anxiously following. Neither could ever call each other friend after this night, but finally each had learned the other’s name.

“Christine,” my father would say, and then charge into one of his longwinded sea stories. Stoic, he was: my father and my best teacher. Our first sailing experience was out of Bar Harbor, Maine with Cadillac Mountain, shrouded in snow, serving as a compass point for us to sail by.

“Christine!” he’d bellow, his curly brown locks draped across his forehead, “just remember your mother was the first lady to sail the Chapter & Verse.”

That’s how our forty-four foot sloop was christened. My mother often blurted the odd cliché when she was frazzled. “You don’t believe me?” She’d say, staring across the kitchen at my father and me. “Just wait ‘till we finish dinner and I’ll prove it to you, chapter and verse.”

Thinking back, I have no memory of what point my mother was attempting to make; only her use of this colloquialism rings in my ears.

My mother was frail, and when father and I found her shuddering uncontrollably, we sensed the end might be near. Parkinson’s took her quickly, perhaps mercifully, but Dad and I cried in each other’s arms just the same.

“We’re moving to Chicago,” my father advised a month or so after Mom’s funeral. After some explaining, Dad blurted, “besides, Chapter & Verse will be trading a harbor for a lake.”

Lake Michigan is where I grew my sailing legs. “Bring her about, Lassie”, my dad demanded, the frothy, choppy water lapping at the bow.

I was only twelve, but Dad expected a full mate’s work from me. He’d walk onboard, eyeing my skinny legs, bony shoulders and blonde locks before looking squarely into my green eyes.

“Pretty soon, the boys will be coming around. Better watch out.”

I tried to heed Dads’ advice as best I could, but during five years of sailing up and down Lake Michigan, he was the one that attempted to keep the boys at arm’s length.

It was on my eighteenth birthday that it happened. Dad decided to show me off to his friends at the Blue Shamrock, a rustic hangout perched above Lake Harbor, Michigan.

“Oh, she won’t be drinking, not yet, gents, but I thought I’d show you fellows what a real chick looks like.” He leaned his arm on my shoulder. “And this one’s come to roost while you boys sit here each night and chew the fat.”

Sure, I downed a sip or two of green beer that night. Wasn’t my first. But soon Dad started to knock down one after the other. The boys had to help him down the galley way and onto the Chapter & Verse before I walked him below. An eerie feeling enshrouded me as I hoisted the two sails and let go the lines from the boardwalk. The water had grown choppy. I balked at the anticipation of my long journey across Lake Michigan to Chicago Harbor on that moonless night. I was pulling on my life jacket when Dad appeared, wrestling with some tarp that lay along the stern.

“I’ve got to get this down below,” he muttered.

“Dad,” I said. “Put on your life jacket.”

“In a minute,” his answer.

A low, rolling swell lurched the sloop from the port side. I turned and grabbed the helm to gain control, tacking against the charging swell. As the sloop steadied, I realized what a chore this trip would be, sailing across the lake without a concerted effort from my first mate.

“Father? Father!” I turned, then rushed to the stern, only to find the tarp wrapped around the tiller. A sleepless night brought about an empty dawn. Harbor security scoured the depths, but there’d be no discovery. I’d lost my only remaining parent to the depths of Lake Michigan.

And now, even as I enter the Mona Passage, I encounter a ten foot swell, rolling through the length of the sloop, lurching me forward, then back. The strong current presses Chapter & Verse forward. I man the helm, attempting to steady the sloop even as another swell approaches. Must be Twenty feet. I steer to starboard, lurching as the swell rolls past. I glance to port. Am I dreaming? A much longer boat approaches. In another minute a dark-haired man pulls alongside my sloop. In a moment he leans toward me.

“You’re going to capsize! Get over to the crawl space on the starboard. I’ll pick you off there.” As he grabs my arm I turn to say goodbye to my dear friend, Chapter & Verse.

His name is Paul, and just for saving my life I married him. Now we have a sloop of our own, and a little girl. Both are named Mona.

The buffalo stood, breathing slow, deep breaths, a slight grunt between each. Mary sat, allowing her backpack to slide onto the thick grass below. She pulled out her canvas and shuffled through her sheets of paintings. She raised her head and stared at the beast.

“There fella, take it easy. See how I’m sitting?” The buffalo dug its hooves into the fresh dirt and grass. Mary Allison eyed the creature, from his oversized head to his stumpy, fuzzy legs planted in the thick brush. “You are a sight.”

She crouched lower. “Sit fella, sit.”

The beast cowered, knees bent. With another loud grunt he stood. Then, with a thud, he knelt. She dug through her backpack until she found a case, filled with watercolor. She dabbed her brush, then again. First, his legs; get his short legs in proper sequence. Then, his hide. A last stroke of her brush and the painting was complete.

Mary Allison stared toward the buffalo, nestled in the thrush. She reached forward and ripped the canvas in half. The buffalo grunted one last time and faded from view. Only the darkened forest stood, visible in the distance, breathing its leafy breaths.

Mary rose and stowed the remainder of her tools in her backpack. She gazed overhead at a vulture, seeing his beak open with a squawk above a grove of alpines. “A condor,” she whispered, “Great California.” The vulture swept from the alpines into the glen behind her. She ruffled through her backpack, yanking her canvas portfolio from its midst. She glanced ahead. The condor sat perched high on a white pine, nibbling on the wood. He spread his feathers, beak open, and lifted his wings.

Mary Allison crossed her legs. The pale yellow bird perched on a mass of manzanita not ten feet from her. “There, now,” she murmured. She pulled out her watercolors and commenced painting.

The condor’s white and yellow feathers spanned the width of her canvas, dominating her freshly painted work of art.

Ahead, the condor stalked her with beady eyes. He lifted his claws from the low branches, his beak open. “Squawk.” The vulture careened ahead and clawed through Mary Allison’s blonde locks. She shredded the drawing, blood trickling from her scalp. She glanced up. The Great California Condor was gone.

Mary Allison hurried ahead through the thick brush. She found the pathway, stuffing her brushes and artwork into her backpack as she strode ahead. She gawked toward the edge of the forest, seeing nothing but dark shadow. Night had fallen upon the park.

Something glimmered near the base of the pines. Mary stepped aside until the golden orb grew visible between the tree trunks. A full moon. She halted, pulling her backpack around and off. She stood with canvas in hand, the glowing sphere now lodged in her brain. Brush and watercolor in hand, she nestled herself amongst the thistles. “Wonderful,” she gasped. Something rustled at her rear. She pivoted, arching her back. There he stood, appearing like a large, black dog, but this was no dog.

Mary Allison sat, frozen. She knew she had no image of this wolf in her portfolio, for there were no wolves in Yosemite Park. She dabbed the timber wolf’s shadowy outline onto her canvas, hurriedly filling in the dim white patches around his eyes and below his throat. She brushed his long legs as well as she could in the darkness. Her arms quivered, waiting for the beast to bolt forward. The wolf raised his head and howled. He howled again. She turned. The moon shone clearly in view, a black crescent shadowing the orb’s bottom third. An eclipse? Anticipating the wolf’s attack, Mary raised the brush above her chest, this wiggling tool her only defense. The wolf raised his head and howled again.

Mary Allison swabbed the moon above and beyond her image of the wolf’s torso. The wolf bolted away, manzanita shrubs rustling as he bounded through them. She sighed and peered at her painting. “Beautiful,” she uttered. But at what cost? Her painting was complete, but Mary knew what she must do, shred her freshly painted canvas into pieces to avoid prolonging her latest tango with the nightlife of Yosemite.

I pluck the sapphire pendant necklace from the sampling chest while she toys with my business cards propped in a small ivory case on the counter. I extend the bauble to her, but she proceeds to turn around and remove her sweater.

I lift her cloak over the counter and hang the beige garment along a rack behind me.

Her narrow back, ribs exposed under a V cut black dress, awaits me.

She stands in position, poised. “Sil’ vous plait?” She lifts her flowing hair with both hands so that I might place the choker around her neck.

My hands tremble. I maneuver the clasp until I feel the tug of the pendant, resting below the hollow in her long neck.

She pirouettes to face me, showcasing the swell of her breasts as she adjusts the sapphire with her slender, long fingers. She steps back. I gaze at the jewels. She’s an inch or two taller than me. I view her legs before snapping my attention to her blue eyes, a shade lighter than the sapphire. I remember what I’ve observed, however: muscle-toned calves below long forelegs. I blubber, then catch my breath.

She speaks, “Qu’est-ce que tu pences?”

I turn to Gwendolyn, my partner in crime, now bent on the unfolding drama to her right.

Gwendolyn whispers. “She wants to know how she looks.”

Wait a minute, Gwendolyn doesn’t know French, but somehow Gwendolyn knows…

“Beautiful,” I stutter. “The pendant matches your eyes, almost, but not quite as luminous.” I stare above her pupils. Her long, black lashes flutter. The corners of her ruby lips curl into a smile. I ponder her words. Though we speak different languages, she understands me.

“Je vous remercie, je vais le prendre.” She reaches into her black shoulder bag. I glimpse her long legs once again. I’m motionless. Gwendolyn rushes over and grabs la dame’s credit card lest I drop the small, plastic rectangle onto the magenta carpet, below.

“Exquisite,” Gwendolyn utters to la dame. “You’ll shine like the sun back in Paris.”

La dame shows no interest in Gwendolyn; rather, she continues her visual inspection of me. Could it be she enjoys my blonde hair, so different from her own? I glance below to my suit, the slacks wrinkled after a long morning. I pull her sweater from the coat rack and hand it to her. Our eyes meet, blue upon blue. We hold our fix an extra moment. Finally, she turns. I inhale. She smiles and plucks my business card from the counter.

“Ll a e’te’ un Plaisir.”

She raises her hand. I grasp her palm and feel her fingers wrap around mine.

“Au Revoir,” I utter, citing the only French phrase I can recall.

Gwendolyn rushes to my side. We view la dame exit the shop, together.

“Okay, Thomas, you can exhale,” Gwendolyn blurts. “But this little affair isn’t over, monsieur, I assure you.”

“Monsieur? Affair?” I ask.

Gwendolyn returns to her station, securing the lock on the counter. “You’ll see.”

*******************************************************

The phone rings behind my station.

“Monsieur, Thomas?”

“Uh, yes, this is Thomas.”

“Ah, bien. Ceci est Madeleine. J’ai achete’ votre pendent, hier.”

I comprehend the word, pendant and wave to Gwendolyn.

“Gwen, it’s my French mademoiselle.”

Gwendolyn rushes to my side, giggling. “I told you.”

Gwen listens as Madeleine asks me to lunch.

“Go!” Gwendolyn whispers.

“But, I can’t, today. Remember? I’ve only got a half hour for lunch.”

Gwendolyn gazes ahead. “I’ll cover for you. I need to lose weight, anyway.”

*******************************************************

I meander about, hearing the noontime bells above the Bon Appetit Restaurant. Then, I see her, strolling with her long gait into the cabaret. I follow.

We’re seated near the windows, viewing the passersby as they rush along.

“Monsieur, Thomas, Ca fait du bien de te voir.”

“See. Yes. Bien,” I say. I stare ahead. Madeleine is wearing the necklace I sold her. The long curve of her V neckline allows a glimpse of her pale skin in contrast to the sapphire, leaving me wanton, again. I sit back. She lifts the menu with her fingertips.

“Commandons. Je suis affame’.”

I guess again as to her utterance, browsing my menu. “Bien,” I say. “Bon appetit, right?”

She nods with a soft laugh and lays her hand partway across the table. I place mine atop hers, swimming in buttery ecstasy. We proceed to order, Madeleine reading the French on the right side of her menu as I scroll the English to the left on mine…

*********************************************************

“Well, how did it go?” Gwendolyn queries, her short, brown mane surrounding her face.

“We’re going to meet again, tomorrow.” I smile. “I’ve got an hour this time.”

This serenade continues until a certain Tuesday, when I suggest to Madeleine we meet for dinner to enjoy the evening cabaret.

The music rouses. We’re seated. Madeleine sports a blue evening dress, short enough to reveal her extensive legs. We dance, then some more, the music slowing with a melodic rhythm. Madeleine’s fingertips crawl along my back. The music wanes. The room dims. I moisten Madeleine’s lips with mine. She returns my favour with her original version of a French kiss, steaming, relentless. We return to our seats and continue our caressing, oblivious to the dwindling crowd and lackluster music. Speaking different languages, we invent a dialect all our own.

I’m late to work again. Gwendolyn approaches.

“Thomas, the boss is watching you. Pry your head out of Madeleine’s chest for a while, huh?”

I grimace. “Gwendolyn. We’ve got to talk.”

Gwendolyn glances around the shop: no one, not at nine-thirty in the morning.

“What is it, Prince Charming? “

“That’s just it, Gwen. Madeleine and I have been everywhere, done everything, but…”

“But what?” Gwendolyn stares into my woeful eyes. “Oh,” she says. “Having trouble taking her for a tumble, huh, charmer?”’ Gwendolyn pulls me through the swinging doors behind us and out of the jewelry viewing area.

“I’ve got more, Gwen. She’s getting quiet when we’re together.”

“That’s ‘cause you can’t speak her language!” Gwendolyn exclaims, chuckling.

“No, it’s not that,” I insist. “We’ve been teaching each other: me to understand French, her to speak English. But, I didn’t understand what she said when we kissed goodnight, something about…I don’t know.”

Gwen grasps my hand. “She probably craved your everything right then. Girls have strange ways. I’ll bet she was dripping—“

“No, it’s not like that. We talked and talked last night, having to learn new words, stumbling over old ones. You see, when we kissed goodnight, Madeleine was crying.”

Gwendolyn raises her finger to her chin, scratching her smooth skin as if touting a beard.

The boss’s voice rings out from the lobby. “Gwendolyn! Thomas! You’ve got a customer.”

Lunchtime nears. Gwendolyn strolls toward me, I to her. “I’m supposed to meet Madeleine In a few minutes. Damn, it’s been busy.”

“Never mind that,” Gwendolyn says. She pulls a small jewelry box from her handbag and leans forward, pressing the box into my chest. “Look, guy, I know you pretty well, right? Five years we’ve been corralled in this joint, and I’ve got news.” Her lips are poised inches from my ears. “We’re not getting any younger.”

Gwendolyn proceeds to open the box, a sapphire diamond ring glimmering forth.

“You stole this? Why, why would you…?” I asked.

Gwendolyn grabs my arm and places the box in my right hand. “I didn’t steal it. I bought it for you.”

“What?” I squeal. “Why?”

Gwendolyn’s blue eyes peer into mine. She nods.

I place my hand on Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “You want me to ask Madeleine…”

Gwendolyn shakes her head. “God, you’re slow, Mister. Too slow. If my take is right, Madeleine is about to hand you your walking papers. Never make a girl cry, Thomas. Never.”

Gwendolyn accompanies me across the shop as I cradle the gift-box in my hands.

“It’s your choice,” she says. “You’ve told her you love her, right?”

I ponder our romance: Madeleine and I. There has been none like it. I lower my head.

“Yes,” I answer, “but only with my reply, after she said she loves me. You know—.“

Gwendolyn pushes me toward the door. “Get going before I change my mind.”

*********************************************************

I arrive at Bon Appetit, but no Madeleine. A half hour passes. I have a half hour left.

Then, there she is, sauntering, limping toward me. Something’s in her hand.

Madeleine greets me with a stroke of her finger along my cheek. Blood rushes to my toes.

Gwen’s right. Madeleine’s about to say goodbye.

She hands me her sapphire necklace. “I don’t want this anymore. It’ll bring back memories.”

I examine her, dressed in a loose-fitting green smock, so that the cherry camisole wedged underneath, beckons. I look into her eyes, puffy. No makeup. Oh, God.

From somewhere come sirens, and a parade of police cars. The racket overwhelms us. I bend to my knees and pull the box from my pocket. My hands shake as if we have returned to our first day together, months before, Madeleine and I; me struggling to understand her words, she ready and willing to understand mine.

Madeleine glances below as I open the box. She turns away, then pivots toward me.

“No, Thomas. If only…no.”

****************************************************

Another afternoon grinds to a close. The Galleria has become a prison, vaulted in memories, complete with security. I glance to the windows. The armed guard stands just outside.

Gwendolyn approaches. “You look worn, guy. Why don’t you go home.”

I consider Gwendolyn’s notion just before the boss walks in. I return to my station and assist what I expect to be my last customer.

A woman strolls in. Gwendolyn greets her and commences exploring an extensive line of jewelry for her.

I bid my last customer farewell and turn to leave.

“Wait, Theresa, I think my right-hand man is finished.”

I glance across to the woman: slender, graceful in her movements as she approaches.

“Sprichst du Duetsch?”

“Nein,” I adlib. Heck, I know that much German. I concentrate. German? I turn to Gwendolyn, wagging my finger below the countertop.

“Ich kaufe eine neue Garderobe und wollen Schmuck passen,” the woman says.

I stare ahead. This fraulein’s blonde curls are bright and furled, her pug nose – dimpled, her eyes: blue as the Pacific Ocean at dawn.

I turn to Gwendolyn, question wrought upon my face. It’s six-thirty. Gwen has passed this woman to me ‘cause she’s ready to go home. I draw a breath. Ambushed, ambushed I am, by my sneaky, plotting coworker and a brazen, blonde, beauty from somewhere in Munich.

I stare at Gwendolyn, waiting for any help she can muster with translation. Gwen faces me.

“Theresa is buying a new wardrobe and needs custom jewelry to complete her ensemble.”

Gwen tosses her phone into her handbag and walks from behind the counter. She approaches me, her lips pursed not five inches from my ear.

“You got it, Big Guy? I’ll lock the doors as I leave.” She pecks me on the cheek and smiles.

I jump, feeling my co-worker’s cool lips grace my cheek for the first time in six years.

She leans in, pecking me again.

I jerk forward. “Gwen!”

Gwendolyn whispers. “She’s all yours this time, Thomas. Trust me, will ya?”

I turn to my waiting frau, her white shawl hanging from her fingers. “Konnen Sie dies fur mich Stauen?”

I pluck the soft cloak from her hand and hang the slight garment on the rack behind me. I pivot to see Theresa pointing to a gold watch, glimmering through the case below. Our eyes meet; her deep blue orbs appear moist as her full lips. We take a breath.

I think of Gwendolyn and step around the glass case, extending my hand.

“Theresa, I almost forgot to introduce myself.”

She clutches my palm with her cool, smooth hand: titillating.

“My name is Thomas.”