I sit in the coffee shop/bookstore at the table I usually grab if nobody has beaten me to it. There is a chill in the air, so I wear a man's light blue cardigan over a long-skirted, summery dress. (This is the south, I rationalize, even as my teeth chatter). I am reading "The Mummy" for like the billionth time and for the billionth time I feel my pulse race at that certain passage and lift my flushed face to see that I am being watched.
He sits at a like table across the room. His small, wire-rimmed glasses shoot a glare of light at me when the sun hits them. A button-down shirt is untucked over faded jeans that have spent the better part of ten years or so with him. His dark brown hair, rumpled by the wind, could use a cut. I choose to ignore the Birkenstocks. I try to ignore him. I take a sip of gourmet coffee but find only the dregs. No more coffee. Can't read with him staring like that. He's beautiful. So? It's disconcerting, him looking at me this way. Hot eyes. I feel them in my
Gather up my satchel of books and ready to face the cold. It takes my breath away, as does his half smile as I leave, promising me, I imagine, that we'll see each other again.
Why the hell am I running away? Scared shitless. This is not me. I am not one of those confident women you read about who has control over men. My hot flash continues for three city blocks. Brrrr! Entering a warm home makes you even more bitter cold for just that brief moment before you become warm.
Can't eat. Glass of sweet wine. Can't get him out of my head. Jesus, why am I so timid? Perhaps... I'll never see him again. What do I know about a man's signals? And why would someone like that watch someone like me? So intently. Like prey.
It's not like I'm a virgin. I've been with a couple of men, nothing special. Unfortunately, I've had better luck by myself. Women are interesting (if they're not idiots), but I still prefer men. I live a pretty solitary existence, really. In my head, mostly. Sometimes I'm kind of a geek, albeit a cute geek, but sometimes I'm a goddamn fireball (my little secret). Nobody but me really knows about my alter ego; I've been afraid to let that part of myself venture out.
Hot shower. Scalding. Numbs my skin. Can't help but feel the water run over my curves and close my eyes and imagine his eyes and hands and mouth. Remember hearing somewhere that skin is a sexual organ. Mine longs for his touch. Not going to let myself feel this. Can't feel this. Can't.
Can't sleep. 142 ceiling tiles. Grocery list. Fuck. Touch my
Cold, sunny morning. S-t-r-e-t-c-h languidly... nice dreamy dream. I try to re-experience it, but it's gone for now. I'll try to get it back tonight. I know now that I have to see him again. If he's not there today, I'll masturbate until my hand falls off.
