Here he was. She put her glass down and went over to the mirror. Not bad, for 37. Her hair was still its natural full chestnut color, fine against her...pale skin. The black skirt suit had cost a lot of money not that long ago, and…whose business was it what she was wearing underneath? Why was she even thinking about it? Lisa was a novelist, one of the “most promising” of the post-9/11 writers. Pushed to the wall, she had started a bit of ghosting “to finance the real work”, but that’s what had. "Marian." My voice sounds higher, more girlish than normal, and I can feel heat rising in my cheeks as I look at you through lowered eyes, fascinated by more than just your accent. Your hair is pulled back in a long pale braid, and you're taller than me by six inches or more, even in the heels that bring my height up to a whopping five-eight. You huddle inside a battered brown leather jacket and faded jeans splotched with faded paint, heavy work boots on your feet, and I feel awkward and. More

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