I was on a break from writing reports when I met her.
She was on the top of my building,
shakily sitting on the ledge,
the place where I used to gaze across the city.

Her hair was long and blonde,
whipping her skin as if chiding her
for sitting on the ledge of a 15 story building.
She didn't bother moving it out of her face,
and I noticed it was caught on
the corners of her lips and
the edge of her mascara covered lashes.

The scene felt like a dream-
never had I encountered someone up here
in my entire career.
She was wearing all red:
a flowing, sleeveless top,
a pair of wrinkle-free shorts,
her toes were painted to match.
The late summer sky
was beginning to blush,
reminding me of the boxed wine
I had left over from the engagement party
I threw the night before.

Her skin was milky,
and as I stared breathlessly
I wondered if I had ever seen her before.
I would've remembered her, surely.
I would've remembered her concerned eyes
and the arch of her eyebrows.
I would've recognized that slight scowl anywhere.

As she turned around,
my heart skipped a beat-
not because of how gracefully
and simply
she swung her bare feet over the ledge,
but because I was terrified
that she would fall off the building
and I'd never get to ask for her number.
Or why she wasn't wearing shoes
(this came as an afterthought).

She jumped oh so slightly
when she saw me.
(I panicked once again,
and awkwardly reached my arm out
as if to catch her if she started falling.)
We stared at each other for a moment,
until I broke the silence.

"Where are your shoes?"
As I spat out that question,
I realized she was probably wondering
how long I had been standing there,
dumbly staring at her.

I'm really good with the ladies, you see.