It's early morning. About 7am. He finished reading the Wall-Street Journal's headings and one article on page 3. He put his cereal bowl in the sink and ran the water- medium pressure, cold- sufficiently rinsing it without spurting back up at his shirt.

He stands in front of the iron-rimmed mirror in the entrance and puts on his tie. Cool blue silk with a light yellow pattern. He likes this tie- the patter reminds him of fish. It's 7:10 on his diving watch. He funnels his arms through his jacket sleeves, tugs on his cuffs, turns his right cufflink until it's in the proper position and smoothes the jacket's front. When he pulls out the left pocket's flap, his hand stops on a sharp yet light object in his pocket. He reaches in. It's a black plastic fork; one tine broken. 

He remembers almost immediately. The woman he saw. Tall and statuesque, her long hair just barely resting on her back, glistening waves, as if on good behavior- waiting until they can swell again. She stood there puzzled. He got up- didn't even know why or how, excused himself and crossed the room in two long steps. He stood across from the young woman, a warm light shining through the window, dancing in his eyes.

"Excuse me." He said to her, leaning his diving watch on the counter. "Can yo tell me where the forks are?"

She looked up at him, distracted, her eyes were clear, her look kind yet direct. A moment lingered. A nanomoment. She moved to search with her eyes and pointed with an index finger to the bin containing black forks.

"Thanks," he said. Not sure how to proceed. She looked at him and almost smiled. And then a man passed by- a short, scruffy man carrying a tray and said hello to her. And off her beautiful eyes went- gone, and a strange emptiness swept over him, like that moment after you've touched ground and your chute landed behind you, releasing its hold, turning into mere fabric.

He took a fork from the bin- what else was he going to do, and stepping out of the near blinding light, he marched back to his table, tucking the fork into his coat's pocket- index finger probing until one tine broke.

As he sat down he sneaked a look. She was walking out the sliding doors into the warm summer wind, her hair free again to sail on the air's soft current. Like a bird, or a fish in the the Mediterranean sea.

'Maybe I'll come back next week,' he remembered entertaining a thought.  But that was a while ago and, he almost laughed, partly embarrassed- he's no teenager anymore. He picked up his briefcase, one last adjustment on his tie's knot, and out he went- into the cool morning air, closing the door behind him.