December 1935

He sat down by his desk and settled his fingertips on his typewriter, eager to start typing, but unsure how to begin his letter. He tried to contain the smile that struggled to warp his lips upwards, feeling foolish for being so overjoyed.
He recalled the moment he had first seen her, walking rapidly on the footway, excusing herself as she squeezed her thin body amidst people, carrying four boxes on one warm whilst she raised the other to check the time on her wristwatch. The clicking of her heels against the concrete seemed to be the only sound his ears were attuned to as soon as his eyes fell on her, the swaying of her hips the only sight his eyes were willing to see, and as he paced faster to get closer to her, her sweet perfume became the only scent he could smell, even though he was just bypassing that one bakery in town that produced the most scrumptious pastries.
He couldn't help himself, so he followed her to the Underground, and took the same train as she. It led him all the way across the town and away from home, but he didn't mind it at all, for it made it possible for him to take a look at the woman's face. Her lips were crimson-coloured and heart-shaped, her skin glowed oddly for its paleness, and her eyes were of the warmest brown. Her features weren't neither soft nor rough, and her expression bore no emotion, although it did not look dull. Her countenance was calm and gentle.

His arms and hands felt light as he finally began to type.
"Adrien, are you there?" his brother called a couple of minutes later, knocking on his door, but not truly waiting for his consent to enter. "Can't you hear Mother calling? Dinner is served."
Adrien hummed in response. "I'll be down in a minute."
"She is going to be furious."
"I'm a grown man, Bernard."
"What's keeping you so busy, anyway?" questioned Bernard as he walked towards his brother who, unfazed, had kept writing.
"It's none of your business."
Bernard approached, his steps noisy behind Adrien, though not inconvenient enough to bother the latter.
"A love letter?" said Bernard after a few seconds scrutinizing Adrien's text. "To whom?"
"Well, isn't it obvious?" Adrien responded, finally glancing up at the younger man. "To the woman I'm addressing."
"Yes, but who is she?"
Adrien shrugged. "I don't know."
"You're writing a letter to someone you haven't even met?"
"I've met her. I just don't know her."
Bernard sighed. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Why, yes, it does."
"No, it doesn't. How do you even intend to deliver the letter?"
Adrien reclined on his chair. "Tomorrow, I shall go to the same spot I saw her today. If I'm lucky, I'll see her again. If not, I'll do that every day until I find her," he said, his words laced in a moony tone.
Bernard shook his head. "That's pathetically romantic. Just stop this nonsense already and come down to have dinner, man. It's Christmas eve."
"No, Bernard. I want to finish this first."
"Then do it quickly." His brother's reply was followed by an exhasperated sigh. He observed Adrien for a while, and witnessed a whole minute of incessant typing. "Boy, are you wonderstruck. Was this woman really that beautiful?"
"No. Not really all that beautiful," Adrien mumbled in response, adding a final full stop to his letter. He sighed, and looked up at his brother again. "But she was breathtakingly charming."
"Charming?" repeated Bernard.
Adrien nodded.
Bernard shook his head. "Frankly. Just finish this and come downstairs," he said simply, then paced out of his brother's room.
Adrien smiled to himself as he read the letter he had just written. "Dear mysterious Lady," he read out loud to himself, "please forgive my indecency, but as you walked about the streets yesterday, I couldn't help but notice how you seemed to be floating, and how the cold wind made the ends of your skirt glide, and how every little movement of your body, even the demurest of them, seemed to cast a spell on me..."
He had to laugh at himself when he finished reading his letter. It was all so mawkish and so unbecoming of a man like him, but Adrien's way of feeling had always been raw and unguarded. The latter did make him sound a bit desperate and pathetic, but he had nothing to lose. In the worst case, he wouldn't be able to deliver his note, and eventually it would be forgotten, just as the auburn-haired charming woman that had caught his eye that day.
He folded the letter thrice and sneaked it into an envelope, then turned the envelope around and grabbed a pen. He dipped the pen in ink, positioned it over the envelope, and hovered it over the paper for a while. He thought of writing his name, but desisted. And how should he address the woman if he didn't know her name?
It took a few seconds for him to finally settle the pen upon the paper and for his wrist to finally start moving. "To: the Charmingest Woman," he wrote, then grinned to himself as he cradled the envelope as thought it were his one-way ticket to a life adventure.