Dreamgirl

Everyday, with the weather permitting, he found himself at the park nestled at the trunk of a maple tree. He came to this spot so often that he decided it was his piece of the park, his sanctum that no one else could enjoy. But it was more of an escape from his dreary reality, often nose-deep in the tales of Don Quioxte. He had been involved with the novel for a few years, finding it difficult to have any interest in moving on to another tale. He narrowed it down to the hope that Don Quioxte inspired, the best excuse he could fathom as to why he would waste his days off doing nothing else.
As he sat under the shade of his tree, a group of college youths ran around a short distance from his spot. He peeked up from the edges of the book, his eyes catching sight of a lovely lady who strayed from the group, less interested in the game of pigskin, more enamoured by a butterfly that floated along its path. He found an instant attraction to her, his blood rushing to his brain, his heart skipping a beat.