"That one," she whispers, and only because it is as good as any other. Yet, her selection is not as random as a casual observer might observe, if one were present to observe. There is purpose in her every moment even though we may not always know it's vein.
Her visage shimmers and fades and is replaced with that of another. A middle-aged man wears a stained and tattered uniform, a faded patch of the 42nd Infantry Division on his shoulder. He is reflexively wiping his greasy hands on the dirty cloth that materialized with him.
His hands cease their movement as he slowly comprehends that he is not where he used to be. He turns his head and looks about, blinking in his disbelief. He is standing on a balcony overlooking an ocean sunset, a cool breeze is caressing his face. The sweet smell of the sea seeps into his bones and releases the ache he had brought with him.
The man recalls that he had been bent over yet another failed motor, trying to repair it with bailing wire and duct tape. He had stood up to ease the strain in his back when his eyes had just come to rest on that pin-up poster hanging on the far wall in the makeshift garage.
But now, as he stood there on that balcony. He wondered if he looked down towards the beach would he find that curvaceous blonde bombshell staring up at him, her tray held high and beckoning with a glass of cold gold suds?
He closed his eyes for a long moment, and opened them again. Then slowly, cautiously, he took a step forward and leaned over the railing.
<word count: 320>
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