Waving his arms back and forth over his head, causing his unbuttoned, olive green trench coat to flap like great wings, Walter tried to make eye contact with the girl. Everyone else on the street was looking at him.  At his age he must look quite a spectacle, dancing around on the curb.  The girl, the focus of all his antics, wouldn’t even turn her head. He felt that familiar frustration in his chest.  Young girls ignored old men on principle, it seemed.  Everything was about sex appeal, not common sense.

He tried one final wave, sweeping broadly with both hands, his forearm brushing the brim of his old, gray Fedora, and pushing it back from his brow.  The cold, wintery air on his scalp cooled his skin along with his intention.  The girl was a dot on the street, too far away now to make a difference.  Settling his hat firmly back onto his head he turned for home.