by Mary Pfeiffer

From across the room the first time he was there, she noticed only how the white shirt darkened his bronze arms and black hair; the next time, he was wearing corduroy trousers and he had a square jaw. Gradually, she discovered that the shadow of his beard that outlined the lower half of his face even when he was fresh shaven annoyed her, making her think he would have made an excellent example of the man who used the “other brand” of razor. His quick, firm walk declared a strength beneath his hard skin. She noticed there was something in his clean rugged looks, in his vivid personality, in the smile that played at the corner of his mouth, that exercised a lively influence of friendliness over those in any group he joined. It was after she knew him well, had memorized and catalogued each feature of his wiry frame that she found his eyes. Hidden under bushy brows and dark lashes too long for a man, their blue intensity drew her into his very soul.


Mary Pfeiffer resides in Texas, living in Walter Middy dreams where she entertains readers with her words. In real time, she teaches writing and needs to complete her own assignments.