outtake due

Outtake #2 – From Chapter 18
Flashback to Friday …
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He wasn‘t looking where he was going. If he had been, he wouldn‘t have stepped out of the elevator and collided with the small brunette, sending her bouncing backwards off his chest like a deer off a truck.
She landed wide-eyed on the carpet.
―Sacré!‖ he swore, as some of his groceries fell out of their paper sack.
The concierge of the building immediately helped the young woman to her feet, scolding the man who had effectively body-checked her. ―You need to watch where you‘re going!‖
―I‘m okay,‖ she managed, as she brushed off her coat and picked up her messenger bag.
―How about you, Monsieur?‖ The concierge glared mildly at the cause of the unfortunate accident.
The cause nodded shyly.
Monsieur was of average height and medium build with wavy brown hair, and big brown eyes behind his rimless spectacles. He was not entirely unfortunate looking and had a nice physique and very fine teeth, although he looked like a nerd. A slightly fashionable nerd in an Oxford button-down and neatly pressed Levi‘s.
Mercifully, he knew enough not to wear white socks with his black shoes.
―Are you alright, Miss - ?‖ Monsieur turned to the brunette questioningly.
―I‘m fine. I was coming out of the other elevator and didn‘t see you.‖
―I‘m very sorry. I was fumbling for my keys. I tend to lose them -‖ He stopped abruptly.
Simply looking at a woman as beautiful as she was a major accomplishment for Monsieur, for he lived primarily within the four walls of his nicely appointed apartment and within that apartment, he lived almost entirely within his head. Unless he was chatting via Skype to his mother, the inimitable Madame.
Monsieur was an underemployed writer.
―I‘m sorry about your lemons.‖ The young lady crouched down to pick up the fruit that had split on impact with the floor. They must have been overripe.
She handed them to him awkwardly, and then reached into her pocket for a tissue to clean her hands.
―Story of my life,‖ he muttered. ―No lemons this week. Again.‖
She arched an eyebrow at him and then turned back to the concierge expectantly.
―I‘ll take you to the Professor‘s apartment,‖ he said, as he led the young woman down the hall.
―Monsieur lives there.‖ The concierge pointed to the apartment adjacent to Edward‘s.
Bella noticed that on the door there was a brass nameplate with the word ―SIR‖ engraved on it in a very elaborate, capitalized script.
Who would be so pretentious as to put that on their door? Why didn‟t he just put MONSIEUR? Or SEIGNEUR?
Monsieur watched them walk away, and then hastily picked up the rest of his groceries, tried to mop up the lemon juice and pulp with a Kleenex, and walked to his apartment.
As he put away his groceries his thoughts turned to the young woman. She was lovely – all long, brown hair and pale, clear skin. She was Helen of Troy and Princess Leia and Galadriel rolled into one. He was captivated by her ethereal quality and cursed the fact that he was only able to have the barest glimpse of her. If she was breathtaking in less than a minute, he surmised she would be astounding upon lengthy examination.
And since she was obviously a friend of the Professor‘s perhaps he would see her again.
Then again, perhaps not.
He deposited his destroyed lemons sadly in the garbage and walked his long legs over to his desk. He cracked his knuckles, one by one, and began typing eagerly into his laptop. His dry spell was broken. Now he could write.
With a muse like her, he would write all night and early into tomorrow …