It was the Duane Reade, really, across from the Apple store. You wore a light purple, fuzzy coat. You're about 5'8, fit? I can't tell. As I left, you entered the store, and we held eye contact. It was nice. My mouth went dry. I stood outside, then went back in. Saw your dark hair disappear down the broken escalator. Bought bandaids, letting people cut me in line, lingering the best I could – already had bandaids. I joked with the cashier to stretch what time I could and, finally giving up, turned to find you looking up at me.
Were you smiling? I tried to say hello but the drought had spread, and before I could recover my legs betrayed me, took me to the doors. All I could get out was a loud "wow."
It's the most cowardly moment of my life. I took a left out the door knowing you'd come from the right, hoping my wrong choice would be rewarded by your passing. By a third chance I would know I'd never forgive myself for not taking hold of. I walked slow, in a straight line, only peeking twice behind me, straining to see that hue emerge in pursuit.
All that long walk home I was humiliated by a color I'd never seen before. That fucking coat's color. Every other jacket, dye job, phone case was made of it.
Tried to content myself with the fact that I'd know you if I saw you again, only to curse myself for not checking what you were buying – now I've no clue if you'll return to that store or not. I'm helpless. On the train trying to convince myself your mien was that of a content, married Williamsburger. But I don't think you're from here, or there, at least, and you have the smug, assured aura reserved for the well-divorced and oft-engaged, never married crowd.

Either way, my god. There's a regret for me.
Never done one of these before – Does it work? Do I have to ask for you to reach out? To send this to a friend it might have been? I'm ruined. Ruined.