Claire

claireShe wore a fedora, crisp and new, in dove gray felt. A thin black silk hat band sprouted a small blue jay feather, electric against the gray felt. It was snowing lightly and the flakes perched on the brim of her hat. Under a lightweight forest green jacket, she wore a thick brown cable knit sweater, with a collar that rolled under her chin like a scarf.

We stood apart on the windy platform, waiting for the next streetcar. She was looking over the tracks, across the street, watching the parade of pedestrians passing on the sidewalk. Her face was alive, a bright sparkle in her eyes, and a smile that never left her lips. I was only looking at her, entranced. The breeze played in her long blonde hair, and she dug her bare hands into the pockets of her jacket. It was an ordinary day, but made extraordinary by her presence. I had never seen anyone as beautiful. As she stood waiting on the platform, I wished that she were waiting for me.

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Author: Stephen

Stephen Harris is a writer, painter and a photographer who lives with his family in Maine.

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