At the table beside me sat three girls. They were friends that was evident in their behavior.  One was behind a post, I couldn't see her well, she had dark brown hair pulled back in a pony tail.  One was blond, from the sun blond, with chiseled features, quite pretty but not my type, sort of Scandinavian.  The other had red hair, not bright red, a brown-red.  She was the one that intrigued me.  With bright cobalt  eyes,  I had never noticed red hair and cobalt eyes before.  I would have most defiantly noticed, I never miss a redhead, never.  I can pick out a redhead on a moonless night at 200 paces.  I have a thing for them.  I always have.  The only one I ever captured was my wife.  I was in my glory, until she died.  I can't put a handle on it, the red hair thing, I mean.  It's not a fetish I can do without it; but it draws me like a magnet is drawn by the poles.  I should not resist the pull; but I do.  Is it in my Celtic genes that I crave to spew my seed only with other Celts.  No,  I would spread it to those that I loved without thought of hair color.  I wish I knew, for certain, the rational behind it.  Then I could search for the significance behind,
the redheads smile,
when our eyes met,
for the first time,
while she talked,
to her friends,
at the table,
beside me.