She was a woman of about
35 he reckoned, looking
Across the bar.
She had half an ale at her
Elbow, a book in her hand, of
What he could not see.
Cropped hair at the back
And long, falling forward
At the front.  White skin.
Prominent collar bones.
A nice face, open, engrossed.
He decided he was in love.
Her left hand turned a page
And the right grasped the glass,
Raised it, absently, to her lips.
Medium build, somewhat
Stocky but not fat.
Intelligent, sensitive.
A decent woman.
His heart expanded.  He
Dreamed.  He concluded
She must be taken, must
Be, by now, someone
Else's property.  Not for me.
He looked away.
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