Outside of her apartment on the sidewalk below.
I watched from my window.
Blue cotton dress.
Light brown hair.
She spoke with the mailman, like she always does.
He smiled. She saw the pain of war hidden behind his eyes.
(I knew him too. About 70 years old. Fought in Vietnam. His hands shook when he handed your mail over.)
I called her up.
Asked her out to coffee.
I wanted to see her in the blue dress.
It matches her eyes, but doesn't match their fluidity.