Dixon Street.  She lived on Dixon Street.

Little white house with a chain link fence to keep the dog in.  Neighbors so close you could hear their television at night.  Forced hello’s in the morning and goodnight’s while you walk the dog.  Every perfect little life that most people hope they get.

She lived in that house because it was her parents house.  They passed it down to her when they bought a luxury RV and decided to travel the country on their retirement.  She lived there but it wasn’t her dream, just a stepping stone.

I saw her one day as she was mowing the front lawn.  She was wearing a pair of skimpy running shorts and a running bra.  Her hair was bundled up on top of her head in a perfectly messy bun that looked as if it was designed that way.  She looked amazing doing a mundane task.  I could have watched her mow that lawn for hours, but sitting at a stop sign for that long becomes suspicious.

I wish I could have asked her out right then and there.  I considered it.  Even later that evening I thought about walking up to her door and knocking on it and telling her how beautiful she is and asking if she would like to get something to eat.  But it all just sounded so fantastic and ridiculous that it would never amount to anything.

So I just let it be.  An observation as I drive by.  A treat.  An enjoyment.  Something that could possibly be but isn’t, however never fully denied to never be.  She’ll live as something special.  She’ll live on as something pure and never was but always could have possibly been.

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