New York City. Years ago. A sharp fall Saturday. The air smelled cool and delicious. It was invigorating, like a shot of pure oxygen. I was walking alone up Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village when I saw her. She was standing on the corner of Eleventh Street about a block away. I could see her curly red hair in all its wild abundance, a crimson beacon.
Sounds like a synopsis for a fine novel. Why don't you write it? I'd love to read it.