Looking up from a story I’m trying to open I peer into a stranger’s sunny-wrapped face: twenties, dark, pretty. I shrug, the blush spilling across my pasty flesh accentuated by the awesome sunlight hammering on textured silver. There are empty tables all around the coffee shops of the Cappuccino Strip. I stiffen at her presence, her dress of pale flowers.
-Go right ahead.
The (Spanish?) woman sits at my table and dropping my own covered eyes to the dazzling white page I sense Iberian eyes x-ray for clues. To help her out I resume the futile scribbling in my little notebook, writing now about her, about what we could be doing together.