She saw him once a week, every Thursday afternoon without fail. A blue-collar type with green eyes and a wry smile. Her most recent dates couldn’t compare.
So… time to make a move.
But how? There were obstacles – thick glass, high attitudes, dangerous crosswinds. She needed a plan. Something bold, something creative.
She pulled a black marker from her desk and scribbled her number on a sheet of blank paper. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, slapped the paper against the clean glass.
Message sent.
The window washer on the other side paused mid squeegee then smiled.
Message received.
The Weekday One Hundred 