Ten

"You know, Maggie," realization sparked in her eyes like a firecracker. "He's my Harold Crick! I created him and then he came to me. All and nothing, he's like a dream."
Maggie couldn't help but laugh. Her friend had always been this way, some would say melodramatic, but Maggie thought simply unafraid to sound at turns silly or poetic in her everyday speech. It was amusing."A good dream, I assume...?" She grinned.
"No - oh no. Both good and bad, like any real human should be. He was sort of my favorite, I don't know why I never finished his story."
"Really? Well, would this be a character I am familiar with?" "Yes." She tried not to smile.
"Okay, and his name is?" Maggie couldn't suppress her curiosity. "C'mon man, I'm helping you out a lot here. And anyway, I've got a hunch, but I want you to admit it yourself. It'll be good for you."
"You better not laugh." A serious smirk. "Oh hell, you already are. His name was Andy. Andy Delaney."
"I knew it." Maggie had to say. "But you've got one thing wrong."
"Hm?"
"Andy's eyes were blue. His are green."
"Are you really going to do that, Maggie?" She laughed.
"Maybe."
"If you must. Yes, Andy's eyes were blue, but I couldn't make them green because neither of his parents had green - and Dean had to have green eyes. Besides, he has hazel eyes - they lean toward green, yes. But they're hazel. Aren't they beautiful, Maggs? Such a warm hazel."
Maggie's laugh was long and loud. "You're such a sucker."

Nine

That song was on the radio again. He would never tell anyone he liked it, much less that it reminded him of her. The words wrapped around his temples like the tinkling of raindrops.
It was like her eyes; dancing, glistening like a fresh snowfall. It was like the color of her lips... Or her voice; tender, patient, even a little scratchy sometimes. Her hair, a sea of chocolate ribbon-curls, flowing delicately across her pale complexion... But, most of all, it was like her skin. Soft and sweet, every pore beckoning wordlessly. The sparkling piano in the background reminded him of each time he had looked away, moments in which every inch had seemed to welcome his weary hands.
He reached for the knob to turn the station, feeling a fool, but stopped short. In hopes that her image would not fade. She, in that dress she had worn: backless, exposing the freckles on her shoulders, grinning shyly up at him - explaining how she posessed two left feet...
And how light she was! He had hardly felt her standing on his toes as they swept across the room. She laughed. It was--
But then, the song was over...

Eight

The longer she was away from him, the surer she became that it was for the best. But this process had to be restarted from the very beginning every time he entered the room. And again later, when she caught the cologne he left on her sweater as they said goodbye. And yet again just before that sweater reached the washer.

Seven

She waited. Pretending not to see him. Hoping her desire for his company swelled through her pores, there was no doubt that it coursed through her veins. She heard the deep step of his motorcycle boots against the cheap tile as he advanced in her direction; noting again how it was sort of funny that he didn't actually own a motorcycle.
She couldn't help but look as he entered her aura of space, nor could she keep from smiling when their eyes met. He wasn't classically attractive, but there wqs something about him that always struck her as beautiful.
She felt the brush of his facial hair against her skin as he bent to kiss her forehead, his handsome cologne caressed her senses, coaxing into dormancy her previous frustration with him.
"Hello, darling." He smiled, settling into the chair across from her. He took a deep draught from the steaming mug before him. "How was work?"

Six

There she was. Languishing at a table in the corner. Legs crossed, toes wiggling, one arm slung over the side of her chair- a lovely picture of exhaustion. Her hair had grown and covered most of her face as her head bowed; tiny, strong fingers deftly clicking away at the keys on her phone.
She smiled slyly as he approached...

Five

Every once in a while, as she spoke, his gaze followed her necklace down to where her cross hung just below her collarbone, framed by the molten chcocolate ringlets of her hair, a sparkling symbol of the faith that was otherwise displayed by mere action.
Her pale skin was flawless, and the gentle rhythm of her heart could be seen at her throat as the life coursed through her, delivering the perfect dose of peach to her striking features.

Four

She wasn't in love with him, yet. But she liked the way he looked at her.