Maxi dresses that fall to the ankle, but cut a v down the front not too deep, but just deep enough to show off a bit of tan skin, shoulders bare, bronzed from weekends watching soccer games and swim lessons in the valley. Mini skirts that show off the muscles in her calves that have developed during mornings spent running, yanked down with a self-conscious hand when she goes to stand after meetings. The platform sandals that heighten her by three inches, closer to eye to eye with the person she can’t take her eyes off of. Sundresses with straps too slim to hide the edges of her bra. The yellow one, the pink one, the hot pink one, the blue with the flowers, the ones that no one has ever unhooked with one hand, lips grazing her neck, dipping to her clavicle, igniting the heat of summer.
Cowl-neck sweaters, cashmere in light blue and greens, soft and inviting touch. White Oxford shirts, buttoned at the wrists. Charcoal suit, navy suit, black suit, all tailored to an exact inseam, waist and width. Rain coats of Gortex and drab colors. Socks of blue and gray, black Oxfords, black wingtips. Ties with understated patterns and neutral colors. The occasional pair of designer dark wash jeans, back pocket fraying from the weight of a cell phone. A parka for the snow, a beanie pulled low over the forehead, sunglasses that reflect his camera aloft, gloves pulled off to snap the photo, the winter moment brighter than July by the sea, and he wishes she could pull his red, chapped hands into hers and draw away the winter cold.
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