She was sitting by the window in a small coffee house, stirring her coffee, black and strong, just like her thoughts were. She wished they would be just as shallow as this small cup of espresso, and not so dangerously deep and consuming. Her book remained closed and was looking at her from the table with some rebuke.
He has been watching her for a while, taken in by her soft charm and curious what was it, exactly, that caught his attention. She was not some extraordinary beauty, but maybe it was the amber shining in her hair, when the sun was touching it... or the way her hand was laying on that book, her fingers drawing something unconsciously on the cover... or her capturing eyes, deemed with something that was on her mind... And, of course, her curves. Come on, he was still a man, after all.
She finally took her eyes off the cup and looked at the table. Smiled sadly to her book, ran the fingers along the cover and thought: "Sorry, Paris, not today". She loved to wander along the streets of that city with Ernest, walking by his side, seeing it with his eyes, smelling with his nose, feeling with his hands, lips, tongue... every line, every page making her sense, making her feel. It usually helped to travel so far away from all the troubles that she could barely find the way back. But today was not the day, obviously. She sighed and took the first sip of her coffee, looking out the window, then her eyes travelled slowly around the room.
He could not believe a simple act of drinking can be so sexual. Her fingers wrapping the cup firmly. Her lips embracing the white edge, slowly diving into a hot depth. Her eyes closing with this bitter pleasure. The tip of her tongue licking the drops left on her lips... He swallowed and tried to calm down, but his imagination was already giving him mental pictures of those lips touching his instead of that cup. He suddenly felt the overwhelming itch to draw. Had not felt it in more than a year... His hand reached for his backpack, but stopped halfway, as her eyes finally met his.
She was trapped. Her soul captured by this dark abyss of his eyes. Their depth seemed endless and somehow, she felt that his gaze burnt a sign on her heart. She did not remember anyone to look at her like that, with a hidden fire. These flames were dancing deep inside, almost invisible, and only the play of shadows on the background of those eyes was the hint of their presence. And stories. Oh, there were so many stories those eyes could tell the one who could read. And God knows, she could. She has been a reader her whole life.
He used to think the depth could only be found in the dark. The light things could be seen all the way through the bottom, keeping no secrets, unable to hide anything, leaving no space to curiosity and wander. Then how was it possible, that the melted pearls of her light grey eyes were so mystique, so intriguing, so...unrevealing. Yes, that was the word. Like it was just a thin still layer, covering the storming waves of the deep ocean. He could not take his eyes from hers, trying to catch all he could, all the transitioning of colors, all moves, all highlights, absorb all the feelings they have awaken in him and wondering if he ever will be able to put it all on his paper.
A slight smile touched her lips when she thought about how much it reminded her reading a really good book. When you are eager to go on and on, to follow the story and get to the end, but you forcibly stop yourself to prolong this joy. That's what she felt finally taking her eyes off his and sliding down his face. She imagined how his thin lips would feel on the bare skin of her shoulder and the long-asleep butterflies in her stomach suddenly woke up and stretched their wings. Touching his bristle with her lips, following its neat line on his jaw... And then his hands... The thought of his hands on her body immediately gave her goosebumps. Her hand slowly ran up her forearm, covering the shivers.
When her eyes finally released him, his hand reached the backpack and took off his notebook and a pencil. He had to transfer this itch in his hands and in his mind to the paper. He had to draw, or it would drive him mad. But while his hands were busy with preparing to engage in the magic, his eyes were still following her. Soft lips smiling... the smile so light and playful that it could only mean one thing. But is it possible, that she is... No, he should not follow that road now. Her neck open in the cut of her purple shirt, pale skin gratefully absorbing the sunlight playing on it through the window. The silver chain running down under the shirt and through the twists of his imagination, right between what looked like a pair of large full and soft breasts under the fabric. He felt the growing in his jeans as he was thinking of touching that velvet skin and feeling it not just with his fingers, but with his most sensitive and now hard part. His hands were burning, and since he could not touch her in real, the only way to put this fire out was in his drawing. He opened his notebook, and his pencil began its journey on the paper.
