Practice. Practice. Practice.
There she was, the mysterious brunette in over-sized snow boots whom I had seen on multiple occasions in the very same spot. She awaited her bus under the cover of the train station, which provided no heat, but kept the bitter Chicago wind at bay. Her weight was balanced on one leg, the right one, and her left was a few inches behind, knee bent, the toe of her boot grinding lightly into the ground. She seemed to stare blankly through the iced glass doors that led right out to the bus stop, but her mouth was turned up slightly to form a gentle smile. It couldn't have been a blank stare, she must have been deep in thought, but what did I really know? I knew nothing about her except the color of her hair and impeccable balance. All I knew is that I had to have her. She would be mine to ruin.
Stories, Poems, and Random Smatterings.
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