It had been ages since the mime had smoked. He sat in the shade of a spreading tree, sipped a mimosa, and wondered how he might pay for breakfast.
The most beautiful woman he had ever seen walked into the cafe. She sat, alone, at an adjacent table. The mime signaled a waiter, who brought a mimosa to the woman.
Her eyes sent an invitation. He rose, sat. The tips of their cigarettes glowed together, their fingers touched, made a slow circle. A crowd gathered, electrified by their mirrored movements, the chemistry between them, and the promise of young love.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 