Now What Do I Do?

Postcard Stories

She laughs every time I walk past her cubicle. I have to pass it—there's no way around.

So, I finally decided to ask her why. I stopped as she was mid-giggle and turned. I turned to face her beautiful mocha face framed by long ringlets and she was grinning and her grin made me grin back and I said nothing but flushed as red as my hair. I shrugged my shoulders, turned and moved on as she giggled again.

Now, when I pass her cubicle I look over and grin but she doesn't bother to laugh, giggle or grin and I realize the same thing that she does: she has me on the ropes.

Yesterday I stopped in and looked at her and stared—stared at the few freckles under each eye, but didn't grin—she looked up and gave me a hundred watt smile and there I was, back on the ropes again.

This morning I walked by and poker-faced I looked over at her. She smiled.

"You win," I said. "No doubt about it—you win." I threw up my arms.

"Whatever do you mean?" She asked and then giggled softly—her voice as beautiful as her face.

 

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