Her hair was wavy. The roots brown, turning blonde as they grew longer. The length, until her shoulder, accentuated her face, which was adorned with glasses. She was writing something, with her back to me when I walked inside the park.

There was definitely something very pleasing about this woman. Very congruous. Maybe it was her clothes. She wore a brown frock that stretched until her knees. The white polka dots on it matching with her white top and a dark brown sweater she was wearing. The flip-flops were brown too. I even noticed red polish on her toenails as I walked past her.

Maybe it was her whole body language. The way she was seated, one leg over another, turning sideways. Her writing pad was on her lap, and sometimes, her finger would touched her lips, as she thought something, before beginning writing again.

I sat down about ten meters away from her, in one of the unoccupied benches inside the park. Not near, but not far also. I took out my lunch, from the bag a shopkeeper had provided. It consisted of thin latte and a sandwich.

Above, a group of cloud was scuttling by, allowing sun to break through. The pigeons that outnumber lunch crowd inside this park were fighting among themselves, for any food dropped on the ground. One of the signboards read: ‘do not feed pigeons.’ An ancient, somewhat dilapidated church maintained this park. I tried not to speckle the land underneath me with crumbs, holding the sandwich with both hands.

The latte with a sandwich was an agreeable combination. I sipped, munched with delight. Time and again, I observed the woman. She was sitting straight now, giving me a perfect view of her. I tried to imagine what her age must be. Her face was fair, no makeup. That’s what she was so attractive. Her pink lips were thin, and I noticed not a trace of wrinkle, shagging, not even tiniest bit of disfigurement on her face. She definitely wasn’t even thirty.

I had brought a book also. Sometimes, with out something to read, an hour can be a tortuous time to pass. It always helps to delve in prose, get excited reading amusing characters. But today, the woman on the bench…I just wanted to wonder more observing her.

Was she a secretary then, working in one of numerous offices in Jermyn Street? There were finance companies in the street, expensive tailor shops, the largest bookstore in Europe, and many different offices I hadn’t noticed. Maybe she had a better job. A PR officer, or even a manager. Her poise, the mannerism, they all hinted at a woman with a degree, and a career that’s advanced well.

Ideas filtered in my mind of how a romance with her would be like. Quiet evening, sipping wine and reading books was my predilection these days. My taste in alternative music was only a weekend occurrence. I loved movies, but I’d outgrown Hollywood. A small budget, alternative movies that brought out all the different quirks and nuances of life generated plenty of my interest. Would she like that? What did she like to eat? No red meat like me? No buggers and fries? Would she enjoy spicy curries, my stable food?

What about the dates? What’s her preferred option, a restaurant, or an open park? A beach or on top of a mountain?

In my own self created, muddled, albeit romantic head, I disappeared, with these thoughts. The rest of the park, with all the coming and going, vanished before my eyes.

Then, she got up. Her lunch was over. The writing pad was tucked inside her brown bag. She looked down on her bench, to see if she’d left anything behind. Nothing.

She turned around and swiftly left.

My dream was over.