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And what a storm! Lightning flashed in the distance, and the rumble of thunder was like a low growl underneath the music playing on the radio. It was the third storm that day - brief squalls that blew into the city with almost no warning and left almost as quickly.
And what a woman! Her long black hair spilled over her shoulder like a caress. Her body, even through the jacket she wore to keep dry, was perfectly proportioned. I finally understood why so many women were compared to cars - it was not so much how they looked, but how they moved - like a machine whose sole purpose was to show off the most aesthetically pleasing example the human race had to offer.
With a start, I realized that I was staring at her in a manner that was rather forward. Too quickly, I moved my gaze back to her face. She hadn't noticed, she was not looking at me; I could continue to drink in the details. The lines of her features were smooth and untouched by time, but neither did they give a hint to her age - she could have been nineteen or thirty-five. Her cherry-red lips were pressed together in irritation as her umbrella balked at her efforts to close it. Finally, it relented, and the violet fabric folded in on itself.
She turned to me then, and smiled at my rehearsed greeting. I was too engrossed, too distracted, to think of something original to say. Her eyes caught me, and I lost the thread of her words. They were blue, ice blue, cold and distant. They say that the eyes are a window to the soul but hers seemed like mirrors, giving away nothing.
She repeated her question and this time I heard. With a profound and crushing sense of disappointment, I was forced to reply in the negative, and I knew my time with her would be short.
We did not have any Apple laptops in stock.
I desperately attempted to salvage the scraps of a possible conversation. We could order them, of course, anything she wanted. I'd even sell it at-cost, I told myself, if only I could speak to this ebon-haired goddess for a few more minutes. If she ordered it, I could even get her phone number, though my mind would not consider until later the ethical considerations of using this information, garnered on a professional level, for any sort of personal contact.
It was not to be. It seemed, she could order one herself. She had before. She had simply wished to try out the Macbook Air before she bought, to see if it was as good as the claims. Privately I considered that perhaps no mere piece of man-made technology could compare to, could live up to her standard.
And so she left. Her umbrella did not fight her this time. It turned out, she was as much a joy to watch leaving as arriving, except the tinge of pain at the knowledge that I would never see her again.

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