I once read somewhere that only mature women can wear purple successfully. I hate the word mature. It connotes old age, rather that sophistication, which is closer to the mark. But you can be sophisticated and not mature. If you have not experienced this, you will just have to trust me until you experience it for yourself. Besides, old was not a term I would use.
She admitted to being over 40, but standing in the opening of my cube, I would not have put her at more than 35 and judging by the increase in traffic in the hallway that fronted my cube, she had the attention of the rest of my male office mates as well. Like most IT shops, ours was heavily male and an attractive woman in our midst generally caused an urgent need to be somewhere where you could survey the scenery. I do not know if she noticed the extra attention. She probably did. As a woman in IT, you either ignored it or you did not last, especially if you were even remotely attractive. She was. I read once upon a time that if a mature woman was going to wear purple, it had to be silk. Even from 10 feet away, I could tell she was wearing silk. Do not ask me how I knew, but I did. Maybe it was the way her blouse fell or the jacquard on the fabric. Three years in men's clothing had taught me a little. For example, the plain forest green wool skirt, falling two hands above her knees, probably had a matching jacket somewhere, but she was not currently wearing it. The blouse closed at the neck, but without a collar and the buttons were hidden. If I were a betting man I would guess they were pearl. Amethysts, sparkling in their gold settings were in her ears.
She also admitted to being a maverick. She was so well turned out that I wondered where the surprise was. She smiled at me as if daring me to guess, shifting her weight slightly on one foot. I let my eyes flick over her once more and smiled back at her. The smooth line of her skirt gave nothing away; her black hose clung tight to her legs, a slight pattern dancing over them in the light. No, it was the way her blouse fell against her side. At once covering and revealing. No question it was silk now.
"I suppose this is a special delivery and I am going to pay dearly for it?" I asked, breaking the short silence. I do not think I took too long to say something, or for anyone to think anything other than I had been caught by surprise by her presence. A fairly common occurrence actually considering very few people outside of our group even knew who I was, much less came to visit me. I knew who she was, but I do not think anyone else knew I knew. For most of us, she was just a voice on the phone or an email address. Until today, I had never met her in person either, but in many ways, I knew as much about her and she knew about me. It was as if we had been sitting next to each other for years.
"I believe that was the deal," she replied. That I even remembered the conversation amazed me. I rarely remember anything beyond the moment of occurrence unless I consciously force myself to. It makes it tough sometimes, which is why I will often write down important commands that I might only use once or twice but are critical to keeping things going. I have a sieve for a memory and I admit it, but I would have known her in a crowded room. She looked like her picture and yet she did not. Black hair cut short in the front but collar length. Serviceable, some would call it, but I think it suited her, highlighted her features and made her look sexy. There was no order to her locks, an organized tangle that showed spirit. She was a bundle of confined energy, ready to leap into a task - harnessed and straining. I half expected an electric shock when I shook her hand. I was almost disappointed that I did not get one.
"Have you had lunch yet?" I asked, looking at the clock.
"No," she replied simply, her brown eyes smiling. "Where are we going?"
"Well, if I had know you were coming, I would have made a reservation, but I think I can come up with something," I said, riffling through my internal list of restaurants in the area where we could have a quiet lunch without being disturbed. "If you are ready? Or do you want to get your jacket?" I asked.
"I am ready, and I did not bring one this trip," she said as she backed up to let me out and into the hall.
"Then shall we?" I asked, offering her my arm as any gentleman would. She smiled and placed her hand in the crook of my elbow, playing up the roll. We negotiated our way into the corridor and out of the building. She told me about her trip down and the morning of meetings she had managed to endure. She was looking forward to the following day when we would be working together. To be honest so was I, for a variety of reasons, the least of which was I would have someone else trained in my job and would be able to commiserate with.
"You look wonderful," I said when we reached the street, the anonymity of the crowd surrounding us.
"Thank you," she replied. "After all, it is partially your fault."
"My fault?" I asked, perplexed.
"Yes, your fault. You never made a decision."
She was right about that, from her point of view. I actually had made a decision, I just never chose to share it with her, not knowing how she would react.
We stopped at the corner and she moved her hand from my arm and put it across my back, pulling me to her. I rested my hand on her hip and squeezed. I was afraid to rest my hand against her blouse.
"So my dear," I began, "what would you like for lunch?"
We crossed the street and walked into the park a few paces before she turned into the path, forcing me to stop. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her hands playing lightly with the hair at the back of my neck, a twinkle in her eye. I let my hands rest lightly on her hips, holing her, but not preventing movement.
