Her parents had kissed her skin and given it the most beautiful
coffee-with-your-milk complexion. Even from a distance you could tell that her eyes were arresting. Yes, she came from good stock, a wonderful mixture of culture and the features that came with it. You could picture her parents, her father vacationing during the summers in his homeland, Trinidad, feasting on roti-her mother in her native Cuba enjoying tasajo y yuca. One day, you imagined, you and her would lay on some exotic beach, funneling white sand between your toes, smiling at the clouds, as the ocean waves sung you both a
happy song. This would all come in due time, but first you had to meet.

She had her hair pulled back, and though you'd never seen her before you could imagine it dangling down by her waist. At night she would rub her soft hands over your bald scalp, and you would twirl her long strands of hair around your fingers. You could feel your fingers exploring her curves, as well. Exploring, playing her abrupt angles, like the last few holes at the miniature golf course. This would all come in due time, but first you had to meet.

She moved like the wind, on the opposite flow side of the mall, and almost at once your feet pivoted you, to follow her. It was your destiny to be here this day, to come across her, and one thing life had taught you-don't fight destiny.

Mi cielo. My sky. My everything. You had always wondered where you picked up that obscure Spanish phrase, and when you would ever use it, now, you understood why God had introduced it to your ears and lips. You knew she could be all of that and more as you shadowed her, prepared to duck behind the large flower planters that dotted the mall's corridor if she happened to look back.

She takes the escalators up to the next level; you follow, using the stairs.  She stops at one of the jewelry kiosks along the way; you hover by the window of a leather goods store, checking for her reflection in the glass. She moves from the kiosk, you count two or three heartbeats and then move along with her. Her walk is seductive, pulling you in, daring you not to stare. Of course, you stare. Stare so hard your eyes ache. Stare like one does at a beautiful painting, imagining the depth of passion the artist had as he stood before the empty canvas. Wondering if he knew how much his visual magnum opus
would move you when he dipped his brushes in water to cleanse them for the next painting.

She carries a greasy bag of fast food, swinging her arm like a schoolgirl as she walks, co-mingling the French fries and burger inside the bag, tossing them about like the butterflies in your stomach. At some point you're going to have to stop her, introduce yourself. You wonder if the words will come effortlessly, if they'll roll off your tongue single file or if they'll wrestle each other as they exit your mouth. You wonder if when she giggled at your nervousness if she'd cover her mouth with her manicured fingers, if her laugh would be soft. As she continues to glide forward you get your answer-yes, she'd cover her mouth and expose her French Manicure, and yes, her laugh would be butter soft.

She enters an expensive shoe store. You stop by the benches outside, sit  down, and work on your game plan as you sneak glances in her direction. She's chatting with another attractive female, munching on one single fry as the other woman helps herself to the contents of that greasy fast food bag. This appears to be her final destination. She works in the store. This is the moment when courage and fear do battle. You hope and pray courage comes out victorious.

As your heart pounds, and your hands sweat, you move from the bench and head for the store. Courage it appears, has won. You stop by a display of shoes at the store's threshold. You pick a pair up, rub your fingers across the smooth surface, and caress their soles. You realize at once that you're taking your erotic thoughts and placing them upon these shoes. You place the shoes back on the tiered rack. You enter the store completely and make your way to the front, where she's standing, laughing with the other woman. Just as you had
imagined, her laugh is soft.

"Excuse me," you say, breaking their conversation, looking her directly in the eyes, "could you help me decide on a pair." You're not sure if your eyes are deceiving you, but there appears to be a tint of gold in her eye color.

She looks at you with surprise, looks at the other woman, who smiles and nods, then turns back to you again. "Sure," she says. "Which pairs were you interested in?"

Oh, her voice is sweeter than summer fingers with melted ice pops lathered on them.

"Come with me," you manage to say. "I'll show you the two I looked at." You direct her toward the front of the store, out of earshot of her co-worker, your knees boxing each other as you work the aisle maze. You reach the front somehow and point to two random pairs of shoes. "These two," you say.

"And what size do you wear," she asks.

"Twelve," you reply. You could swear that she licked her lips, and looked at you with a naughty smile when you told her your size.

"Me puedes ensenar esto sapatos, en la taje doce?" she calls out to the other saleswoman, holding up your two shoe choices.
"Doce?" the other woman asks with emphasis.

"Umm-hmm," she replies with equal emphasis. When she turns back to you her cheeks are cherry-blossomed. She smiles awkwardly then averts her eye contact.

The other woman emerges from the back carrying two boxes, hands them to the object of your desire, and gives you a quick once over-that you notice.

"Try these on first, sir."

You place them on your feet. They feel extremely comfortable. You love them.

"No," she says.

"Yeah, they're not me," you say.

"Try the others."

Her eyes flicker like candlelights as you step into the second pair and walk a few steps. You don't enjoy the cut of these as much as the first.

"They look good," she says.

"I'll take them," you respond.

"Excellent," she says. "Angelique will ring them up for you. Thanks for the purchase."

You search for a nametag so you can thank her, but she doesn't have one on.

"What was your name?" you ask her, feeling confident.

"Yasmin," she says.

"Well, Yasmin," you say. "You were of excellent service."

She smiles at you. "That's my job, I enjoyed helping you."

You take your purchase to the front counter.

"You'll be purchasing these today, sir?" Angelique asks.

"Yes."

"Did Yasmin provide you with the level of service you expected?"

"Even more so," you say, smiling.

"Good, will this be cash or credit?"

"How much are they?" you ask, clenching your jaws. You hadn't planned on this purchase.

Angelique turns up the box. "Two forty-nine."

You gulp out a weak, "credit."

A while later you're walking through the mall, box under your arm, running  back the sequence of events from earlier. You'd done well, but you hadn't gotten her phone number, or asked her out. You had to go back and finish the job.

Angelique is by the counter when you return.

"Excuse me," you say. Angelique smiles at you in recognition.

"I'm sorry," you stammer, "I need to speak with the other saleswoman. Yasmin."

"Yasmin?" Angelique says. "Oh, she doesn't work here."

Your face clouds. "But-"

"She's the manager's sister," Angelique says. "She brought me lunch as a favor."

"But she helped me," you say.

Through a snicker, Angelique says, "You needed help."

Your posture shifts down in realization, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Angelique calls to you, "but she did leave this for you."

A Post-It note, with delicate handwriting. Yasmin's name, phone number is written in red ink on the yellow note. You look to Angelique with utter happiness.

"You treat her good," Angelique says, "I love her to death."

You lean down, and strain to read Angelique's nametag. It says, Angelique, Store Manager.

Angelique smiles at you, and of course, you smile back.