She didn't come in from a car, but she did come in from the parking lot.
Her easy smile and crooked teeth looked like every girl down the lane that every boy knew when he was of a certain age, and began to become interested in such things. She was wearing a pleasing fish-net knit skirt of an aquamarine color which, again, was of that time when a young man first begins to know what it means when the older people talk about first noticing young ladies. Under the skirt, she wore blue and orange striped panties, clearly visible when she faced one directly and the sun shone on her. She walked with an unworried expression that said with certainty that she was enjoying a lovely day, and that nothing would spoil it. When she walked into the room, twelve heads turned to the door. It was as though the men with the keyboards could smell what had happened, and knew what they must do.
She paused, momentarily, in the portal, observing the gloom as her eyes adjusted. She sached across the stained concrete floor, and into twelve pieces of fiction as twenty four hands slapped keys furiously, trying to capture the perfection of the moment that had just occurred.