He pulled in just ahead of me, dis-embarked from his bike, his large muscular legs outlined by his bike shorts, his eyes on me, connecting for seconds, long enough for me to wonder... would he make love softly, would he push me naked against the wall and kiss me with his pent-up hunger? I have never seen him before although I come here every Sunday.
I am wearing my calf length leggings and my merino wool black tank. My body is hot and sweaty from my run, my skin cold from the morning air. My legs tired and shaky, my hair damp from the mist and my sweat.
I am at my favourite coffee shop now, at the counter, tired from my week, exhausted from my run, hungry from not eating enough yesterday. I ran before my coffee today; I like the pain. A man passes by and says, "try smiling sweetie". Anger rises in my chest and I am swearing silently about the fucking male fucking privilege of commenting on the facial expressions of other people. The good-looking Barista soothes my anger, she understands: coffee first. Cappuccino today.
Coffee. Paper. Chair. Sip. Open paper. Look up. The man from outside is sitting across from me in the corner, at another table with his friends. He is looking at me, talking to his friends, but looking at me. I drop my eyes. Coffee. Hot on my throat. I'm thirsty. He is tracking me, I feel it. I cannot help but steal a glance. He is so much bigger than me. I blush. I feel it. He sees it. I blush again.
Washroom. Breathe. Cold water on my face. I open the washroom door and he is standing there. "Have we met before?" he says. "I wish" I say. He moves closer. "I want to kiss you" he says. "Yes" I say. His lips land so softly on mine and the most delicate sensual kiss leaves me flushed and wanting more, wanting force, pressure, and hard kisses. He whispers: "meet me outside in 10".
