He looks like he belongs inside the issue of Men’s Health that he’s clutching in his hands. Muscled, veiny hands, with thick, long fingers and veins that convey strength. All of him looks strong, really, which is why I notice him sitting on a bench. We’re both on the third floor of the parking garage at SEA-TAC Airport, waiting to take a shuttle into the city. I’m sitting 20 feet away, but even from that distance, I can’t miss him. He’s broad – his shoulders are so broad that all I can think is “lumberjack” or “personal trainer.” He’s wearing a simple white t-shirt, but it clings to his biceps in a way that makes my mouth water. A white t-shirt never looked so good. When he stands to grab his bag, I can see that he’s easily 6 feet tall or more. Narrow hips. Strong thighs encased in worn denim that fits him ridiculously well.
Running barefoot in the morning grass, the freshly-cut blades sticking to your feet. Mom won’t let you back into the house until you’ve sprayed your feet with the water hose but, even after the grass is all gone, the bottoms of them stay green for a full day.
Spending most of your afternoon standing in the cool shade of the old oak tree, unable to take your eyes away from the tiny little green frog that’s been clinging to the bark. (You name him Phil.)
This week’s weekly writing challenge is to tell a story in just 50 words. Here’s my story: