The hand you are dealt is determinism; the way you play it is free will. ~ Jawaharlal Nehru Mitch caught Maggie’s eye when she walked through the restaurant. He wished she didn’t look so damn good. He loved how her sweat suit hugged her curves. The older she got, the better her body. And the color—The old Maggie never would’ve worn pink. She made it a point to shy away from any shade of the color. Mitch took a deep breath trying to free up the tightness in his chest. Deep breathing never worked when Maggie was around, but he tried anyway. The pink made her hair look blacker and her skin more olive. She wasn’t fooling anybody. Her pure soul shone through those dark, mysterious eyes. There was no hiding the real Maggie. He could see right through her attempt to be someone she wasn’t. He sat up a little straighter when Maggie walked by. Wendy reached over and touched his hand. She smiled and patted him. He focused on her hand. Wendy Owens was a catch any single man in town would love to get.
