(A) He picks up the Frisbee and returns to his game.

The birds in the trees and the rustling of leaves blend seamlessly into the distant noise of traffic; the resulting symphony is a soothing lullaby, an opiate dulling the senses. Suddenly a sharp and insistent yelp breaks the white noise. "Tom! Hurry it up!"

And Tom, with a last, vaguely wistful glance toward the bench just feet in front of him, bends over and retrieves the inanimate Frisbee laying in the grass. The fabric of his softly faded ringer tee stretches orange across his shoulders and chest, and as he trots back to his game his step is airy, lifted by the warm spring breeze.

With a strong flick of his wrist he sends the disk soaring. It spins smooth and soundlessly, and at the apex of its arc Tom turns abruptly around and heads back in the direction from which he came. In five long strides he is before her, and from this close proximity she can see that the hems of his dark blue jeans are slightly frayed.

"Hi," he says, louder than the introduction warrants. "My name is Tom," he says, softer this time. A thin layer of perspiration glazes his forehead, and it makes him seem as though he were glowing; illuminated from the inside.

"I know," she replies, noticing for the first time that his dark hair is splattered with grey.

Her quip throws them both off center, and after some shuffling of feet on his part, wringing of hands on hers, he finally asks to join her.

With a nod of the head she assents, and suddenly they find themselves sitting side by side, shoulders barely grazing. Silently she breathes, and in the air detects a hint of perfumed citrus. "Lovely day," he ventures.

"Yes. Yes it is." At a loss for words after this curt reply they sit silent for a time. A squirrel, emboldened by the stillness, steels his nerves, hops one, two, three times, and digs in the soft earth inches from her polka-dotted kitten heels.

Each second grows heavier and heavier, and as time layers upon itself like sedimentary rock so too do the future that could be, the future that could be past. "So..." they start, simultaneously, and breaking into irrational giggles the conversation finally flows somewhat freely. They trade barbs, back and forth, and with each successive reply they weave in and out of each other until they find themselves inexplicably enmeshed. And just as they begin to settle, begin to pull down the ramparts and slowly bleed into one another, a sharp and insistent yelp breaks through.

"Hey, Tom! Let's go. We need to be in Gaithersburg in an hour." Before them stands one of Tom's friends, the impatient one, insistently tapping his foot in the grass.

Seeing that his friend will wait no longer, he reluctantly rises from the bench. Pulling his shirt taut and smoothing the denim bunched about his thighs, he turns. "Can I call you sometime?" he asks lightly, almost too politely.

Does she:

(A) give him her phone number;

or

(B) politely decline?