They meet briefly.
She's wearing a dress with a label no one will remember two seasons from now but everyone wants to have and a pair of silver peep-toe slingbacks that reveal her pastel-pink pedicure.
He's wearing an Old Navy sweater two sizes too big and flip flops, the kind that smell of grape jelly.
They greet. She with a tilt of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, he with a crooked grin.
She swings her Kate Spade across her shoulder and stalks off.
He heads to the bar for a beer.
She's been fantasizing about him all night.
He doesn't know.
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