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Blue Glass and Emerald Eyes

It was the kind of August morning that couldn't help but inspire a feeling of optimism in Michael Denton. It had rained, and he noticed the sky was that particular shade of blue, and the sun at that precise angle, so it glazed the sidewalk in amber and set the flecks of mica ablaze. He appreciated how it filtered through the leaves of the city-beautification trees lining the sidewalk, refracting through the last vestiges of the morning's rainstorm and dappling his short, brown hair with gold.

It was still cool, and breezy. It wasn't yet 9 AM, and despite the pleasing morning sun, Michael was glad he had remembered to wear a coat. His Cole Haan khaki trench coat flapped behind him, nondescript but exuding, in his mind, a casual but successful air. It was Saturday, and at this hour relatively few people jostled along the sidewalks, and traffic was at an ebb, reminding him that even Chicago can be somewhat calm if one gets up early enough. At the corner of Madison and Clark he bought a copy of the Tribune and, to clear any remaining fog of sleep, he stepped into one of Downtown's ubiquitous Starbucks.
Savoring his rich, smooth grande mocha latte, he browsed through the headlines in a perfunctory way. "Wheaton Apartment Fire Claims 4 Lives." A shooting in Evanston. "Walk for Polio Inspires Hope." Something about Iraq. Further evidence that the news never contains anything of interest. He flipped to the Business section, paying particular attention to the stock reports. His investments had continued to improve, one stock by four cents, another by eight. Satisfied, he set down the paper and saw the love of his life.

He thought his heart had stopped before he realized that it wasn't her, couldn't be her. But this woman it was uncanny. Peering surreptitiously over his now trembling cup of coffee, he watched her. Her skin was that same tone, darker than his, almost a light olive, but her eyes were darker than Victoria's. She had always had the most arresting way of looking at him, with those green eyes. "Not green, emerald," he'd always teased, as they splashed their feet in her family's pond, rippling its surface like a blue mirror of the sky; she'd hated him making a big deal of her looks, but of course he did anyway. And she'd preferred he call her Vicky, but he assured her that was no name for the sophisticated, elegant lady she truly was. He knew she secretly enjoyed it, even if it did get him shoved into the pond at her family's

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