She first saw him out the corner of her eye, twinkling like a mirage; cherry blossoms waved back, then forth, whistling a spring hymn only birds and ants hear. She was certain he did see her - how could he not? What with cinnamon hair, freckles like sand dotting two cheeks resembling Elizabethan portraits leading one to be curious as to where the gilded frame sat, and why it did not encase her seemingly perfect features. And though her skin was reddened by the sky, what parts that did show glistened. Of course he saw her, how could he not? What fool would miss a chance to coexist on such an evening with such a woman. Such an evening that, if he chose to pluck the strings of fate and strike a chord under the setting sun, could change the momentum of a life gone unlived. Twenty and one years surely produces something, an object, a receipt. But alas, nothing to show. Callous hands and a withered mind to boot. A gust of wind. But she did not see him ponder; she did not see him try to grasp for meaning the way salmon do to bait and better yet why would she see this? Why would she look for stains in fresh cloth? Only, it seemed for a moment, that she began to question if he saw her. Unlikely, as dusk grew and spread over the horizon, through the trees, sitting upon the cherry blossoms. Tomorrow, she thought. Of course he didn't see her. How could he? It was far too dark to see anything, least of all a girl almost fifty feet away. Tomorrow, she knew. And besides, today was no good. Her hair was brown and rattled, knots growing like vines. Her dress had blotches from dampness and beads of sweat lined her jaw, oh, it was silly to think of today as anything but just a day. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow it would be a little less humid and he would, of course, see her. Tomorrow, she knew.