Violet

Yesterday I was walking into a large building, en route to an errand, and I was stopped in my tracks by the most strikingly attractive woman, the type of which perhaps may only be seen in a large Asian city. About 25, she was for all intents and purposes a model of high calibre, yet she was in a simple, if attractive, sleeveless dress and flip-flops, nonchalantly pulling a suitcase with wheels, on top of which was tucked a large and somewhat cumbersome plastic bag. No designer elegance, no airs, no time to notice anything except the three feet directly in front of her. A super-model with no ego in a hurry? A particularly gorgeous textile employee delivering an important sample? I had no idea, but as she strode confidently and swiftly away, I felt I had to know. I did a conspicuous about face and and followed her, sucked in by her wake. As I walked along behind her, I concentrated on keeping my distance and fighting off encroaching feelings of acute self-abasement. What was I doing? Wasn't this Dante's seventh circle of hell, being buffeted about by one's basest and most fleeting desires? Maybe, maybe not, I thought. If we fall in love and live happily ever after, not. These are the absurd types of thoughts that flash through ones head as one pursues a gorgeous and quickly retreating young woman.

Having committed to following the figure, for I could hardly consider her otherwise, I switched my thoughts to the tactical. One has but a single chance to make the right impression. There is a fine line indeed between the felicitous and the fatal, the charming and the cheesy. The very worst situation would be to make a casual, in-passing introduction just before she swerved left or right and coyly nodded adieu.