The bookstore is always crowded early Saturday afternoon, and it's especially crowded with women. You can think what you want about me, but this is primary reason I go there. I go there to look at women, to be in the company of women. Then for the tea. Then for the books. It's what keeps me social when I am not here behind this screen, behind these keys, writing in solitary.
Of all the women there, I find myself repeatedly drawn to one. She's an employee. She stands at the head of the store, near the doors, presenting an electronic reader to the people who enter.
The thing which draws me most to her is the choker she wears. I tell myself that it's because the ornament is so unusual. Anachronistic. So far from our mostly rural culture that it couldn't glare less if it were made from neon tubing. I know this is a lie. It's the subtle symbolism of the choker which draws me. The symbolism of a collar.
She's young to me, about 30. She's just above average height for a woman. She's slender with subtle curves. Her hair is dark dark brown, straight, and just brushes her shoulders. She is dressed like a woman, as compared to many others who are clothed outright as men or seem determined to keep the Hanes company solvent for decades through their purchases of fleece active-wear. She wears a red silk blouse with an Empire waist that gathers just beneath and accentuates the subtle curves of her breasts. She wears black slacks tailored to her waist and hips and the line of her legs. She wears black heels which are not showy in height but which are definitely heels.
And she wears the choker. A black velvet ribbon choker, plain, without pendant, clasped in back in gold.
There is one thought which simply will not leave me: She is collared.
Collared. Marked as possession.
