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March 17, 2005
Mark hated the girl seated across from him on the subway. She and her jeans of perfect fit and teeth of perfect whiteness. High-heeled shoes, backs unscuffed, heels intact. Logo handbag "just so-. Not a blond hair out of place, except for one lock she'd arranged to fall across her glass-smooth forehead. Hate!

Until he saw her fingernails. Perfect length, yes, extending only as far as her fingertips. But when she stood just before her stop and wrapped her hand around the pole, he saw the red polish on two of its fingers was chipped.

Now? Mark was in love.