(B) He walks past the Frisbee to the bench where she sits.

A dying gasp of wind flits through, warmer and more insistent than any of this sunny afternoon past; the difference in degree is so palatable that he stops before he's started. It is the slightest pause of course, but in that infinite instant he breathes her in with the suddenly hot air, allows every molecule of her to dance with his olfactory nerves, to tease the neurons that lead to his brain into nervous frenzy. Of this he is not aware, but something primal, reactionary, some inherent memory encoded into his DNA guides this second of first instincts. Not yet fleer nor fighter he stands a little more erect, smooths the woven cotton stretched exactingly over his his left clavicle, and takes a firm step forward.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks, gesticulating awkwardly at the five feet of empty bench beside her.

She curtly shakes her head, a short tilt to the left, a firm volley right again.

With that sweeping movement his mind clears, and deftly pulling off the Italian wool jacket enshrouding him like a burial cloth he moves toward the open space. In one deft motion he produces a tattered paperback from the back pocket of his pin-striped pants, casually tosses his limp jacket over the weathered but sturdy backrest, and sits in a heap at the far end of the bench. For the cut of his navy suit he is unexpectedly ungraceful, settling onto the bench more like a laundry bag full of dirty clothes than his tailored lines would suggest. But he has settled comfortably despite the unforgiving wood, and relaxing in the warm, dry air he starts to read.

The minutes fall away with each limp petal from the branches intertwined above their heads, and in bustling silence they sit alone. Lost in reverie they sit side by side, completely unaware of the other's existence but for a subtle vibration in the wooden slats beneath their bottoms as one exhales wearily, as one fidgets slightly. For some time they stay like this, symbiotic in their public privacy, until without warning a teacup chihuahua bolts from goodness knows where and begins tearing at the man's hemmed cuffs.

"Bella, no!" she shouts, nipping at the dog's heels as it races across the lawn toward the bench. She is a tall woman, dark and vaguely European. Just before crashing into the surprised gentleman she scoops up the anachronistic pup before it can do any real harm to its unsuspecting victim, and laughing infectiously, apologizes.

They strike up a warm conversation, these two, brought together without design by the unseasonable weather and a headstrong puppy. And meanwhile she sits, unobserved, staring at a vibrant patch of grass six feet in front of her until the Frisbee, long since returned to its owner, barely misses slicing the bridge of her nose wide open.

Does she:

(A) confront the man who threw the Frisbee;

or

(B) ignore the near-miss?