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Claire
Claire
She wore a dove gray fedora. A black hat band sprouted a small blue jay feather, electric against the gray felt. It was snowing lightly and the fat flakes perched on the brim of her hat. We stood in the sun on the windy platform waiting for the streetcar. She was looking over the tracks, her face alive, a bright sparkle in her eyes. The breeze played in her long blonde hair, and she dug her bare hands into the pockets of her jacket. I had never seen anyone as beautiful, and I wished that she was waiting for me.