The hair- curly, blonde, unkempt yet somehow perfectly in place.
The eyes – sparkling, devastating, green.
The smile – friendly, disarming, and blinding in its intensity
She had a coterie of people around her, mostly male, all of them vying for a just a glance.
He looked at his scuffed shoes, his threadbare suit. He looked again at the invitation impossibly sent to him. Yes, it definitely had his name and address. But he was just a writer, a lowly writer of lowly works, the most crass science fictional trash that a low rent soft-porn publishing outfit could produce.
Yet here he was, drink in hand, staring across the room at the most gorgeous woman in the world.
He drained his drink in silence, looked around at the rest of the beautiful people, none of whom had done as much as smiled at him the entire hour he’d been there. And him, certain it was all a terrible mistake, too shy to even ask for a plate of shrimp.
Enough. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the door.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and struggled for air as he stared into her eyes. They were even more amazing up close.
She handed him a book, a worn paperback. It was “Slime Slaves of G’harrn,” his first novel.
“Would you sign it for me?”
All he could do was nod.
She took him by the hand and led him back into the party.
This was written for Leah Petersen's weekly 5 Minute Fiction contest.