"McG, G and me stay put to better appreciate the nimble footwork of our fellow downtown Fort Lauderdale officeworker, headed toward us a half-block away. Her heels and legs are impossibly long, her skirt just long enough.
She seems to glide over the sidewalk, down into traffic that comes to a full-stop at the toss of her raven-y tresses, then back up on our side of the street, coming to a rest behind us at the door of the soon-to-open Royal Pig pub next to Starbucks.
We pivot in perfect synchronicity to offer her a non-verbal salutation, a metaphorical tip of the cap. She pauses, holding the door open, facing us with a broad smile that seems to say, “Hello, fine gentlemen, and good day to you.” Or something like that.
Just then, out of nowhere, the air of chivalry and good will is broken by a plaid-topped figure glowering from beneath a trucker cap. He approaches the damsel in the doorway. He is staring back at us. He is not happy. He is … Wes Welker?"