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"Bird shit" He blurts out


"W-w-what?"  you stutter


"Your shirt." he says, pointing cautiously at your left shoulder. "You have bird shit down the front of your shirt."


You crane your neck uncomfortably, contorting your face in a thorougly unattractive expression to view your shoulder.  Sure enough, there is a tail of whitish creamy gelatinous goo creeping slowly down your left breast.  Mortified, you stand there watching the slightly opaque slime jiggling in the breeze and glistening in the morning sun.  Your mind flashes to the kamikaze demon raven that divebombed you this morning.  You should have blown him to smithereens.  The dashingly good looking man releases your arms, and with it, your heart.  Disappointment sinks into your chest.  A woman possesses a unique ability to run through the full gamet of emotions in a matter of seconds.  He reaches for a wad of napkins from the ledge of the coffee stand and delicately begins wiping the disgusting mess off your shoulder.  He dabs at the trail and then looks deep into your eyes again, staring hard as his hand brushes your breast, clearly taking the opportunity to cop a feel.  You glance back at him with a hint of disapproval in your eyes, albeit not a very convincing one.  One corner of his mouth turns up in a coy smile.  You immediately come to the crashing realization that this guy is serious trouble.  Serious trouble indeed.  


     He buys you a coffee and they two of you talk incessantly as you make your way back to the office.  



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