My boots were filled with water and I was oblivious. There was a fly buzzing my head like a tiny kamikaze. He zipped in and out. I swatted like a crazy King Kong on a rampage. I finally smacked him hard enough to send him spiraling to the ground. Hoping it was to his death, but the little crap flicked his wings angrilly and flew away. At least he was gone.

So there I was, in the middle of the park, with my soggy boots, out of breath from the fight with the fly and he was on his way. I could see him coming. There always seemed to be a ray of sunshine flowing down from the heavens to caress his very being.

His smile was radiant in and of its own. His eyes. The only way to describe the colour is ochre. To call them brown is to call gold “sorta yellow.” No, the eyes need a colour that one doesn’t use in everyday language.

I smoothed my stringy hair, but imagined that it whipped into a commercial quality coiffe, just before he walked by and stepped on my toe.

Water squished from my boot.

Heaven.