S.W.A.T. At First Sight Day!
Today, while rappelling 38 stories down the side of a high-rise in anticipation of crashing through the windows of a known drug-running operation, you'll spy a pair of eyes possessed of such magic, such depth of tenderness that you fear you might fill your night vision goggles with a torrent of tears.
You'll stop still and stare through the glass. She'll be on her couch, a remote control in her hand, her elegant stare holding you hostage.
Lift your night vision goggles to your forehead and place your hand flat on the pane of glass. She'll rise and walk to the window. Her legs will be bare, but she'll be wearing a long men's dress shirt over her underwear.
A men's dress shirt. She has a lover. Perhaps, she's a visitor to this apartment.
Or perhaps she has a husband.
When she places her bare palm against the silhouette of your black-gloved hand on the glass, you'll feel as if you've both tumbled naked onto a honeymoon suite mattress. You know that whatever her situation might be in regards to that men's dress shirt, it's just been changed irrevocably.
The swirling wind around you carries the shouts of "Go! Go! Go!" belted out from your fellow team members below. There's a crash of glass. You smile at her and she smiles back. You let yourself free-fall the remaining nine floors. And when you crash through the glass and release the contents of your AK-47 into as many chests as you can hold in your rifle site, you won't hear a thing except for what's singing through your head.
17th floor. She's on the 17th floor. Just up there. On the 17th floor.
Happy S.W.A.T. At First Sight Day!
