Friday nights are not usually foggy. It's more common to see that in the morning. But tonight, fog overpowered. He drove the uncomfortably long drive to see her, even though once he saw her face, he knew the length of the journey would be justified.
A familiar buzz lit up his phone, meaning her face lit up next to the notification. The lone text reading, "Door is open. I'm in the bedroom," foregoing their usual ritual for his arrival. With the sound of silence, he opened the creaking door to her house. What seemed to be the longest path ever brought him back to her room. Quietly, he whispered outside her bedroom, so as not to alarm her, "Hey, it's me." This is what made him so special to her. He always knew how to make her feel safe.
That's when the man saw her, cross-legged on the side of the bed. The first thing he noticed was the butterscotch-colored, yellow-orange, thigh-length socks. Normally they would be calf length, but not her. They rode up almost her entire leg. She wore a red skirt, knee-length, beckoning, inviting. Her top was slightly off from the color of her stockings, but they were definitely an iconic orange. He knew exactly who she was tonight.