There was nothing particular about her. Her hair was short, black, it curled against her pale cheeks as if to caress them. Her nose was almost always buried in a book.

The first few times I watched her, I almost thought I was wrong. It’s a dream. I told myself, closing my eyes. It was as if I’d found a brilliant flower growing among dry, brittle grass.

Everyday at ten o’clock, I’d walk into the bookstore where she’d be curled up in a chair, smiling sweetly about something she’d read.

But, today, she looked at me. Her eyes shone with intense curiousity when she smiled. “How do you do?” She asked in that unforgettable manner.
My words stuck to my tongue before I could answer. My eyes drifted to the page she held. “The Mona Lisa,” I whispered.
“Yes, it’s in shades of grey, though. Isn’t grey a beautiful color?”