The Washashore

Tourists window-shopped before lunch, ducking into galleries, boutiques, and T-shirt shops. Theater performers called out to passersby, trying to recruit the evening’s audience members with flyers. Two tired, sweaty kids on a bench dipped into a box of saltwater taffy with a cellophane window, removing twisted wax paper from the pastel-colored bites. Buskers claimed their spots and set up for the day.

As they stepped out of an alleyway Bandit had wanted to sniff, the dog darted right, distracting Silas just as a woman stepped in front of him. He stopped, pulling Bandit up short. The near collision put him on his back foot. Already surprised by the sudden encounter, he was knocked off-balance because this woman was striking. Striking enough to fluster him.

She was smiling and looking up to make eye contact with him.

She had blazing  reddish-brown hair, fair skin with freckles all over. He was noticing the details, as was his habit, when the slanted morning rays hit her eyes. Green, deep green—lit up like glass. Tall and willowy, which appealed, given his height. Looked to be in her early thirties, so just a little younger than his thirty-seven. Elegant, even dressed casually—jeans, loose blouse open at the throat, sleeves rolled back. No makeup, almost no jewelry—didn’t need any of that. Confidence. And poise. No, more like effortless grace. Her face looked kind. And something about her felt familiar.