I sit in the little indie bookstore coffee shop, at the table I usually grab if nobody has beaten me to it. There's 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'm reading
Belinda
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 similar table across the room. His sexy-nerd glasses shoot a glare of light at me when the sun hits them. A button-down shirt lies untucked over jeans that look comfortably worn and soft. His dark brown hair, rumpled by the wind, could use a cut. I choose to ignore the flip-flops. 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. Hungry 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, I imagine, that we'll see each other again.
Why am I running away? Scared shitless. This isn't me. I'm not one of those confident women who manipulates men with a look. My hot flash continues for three city blocks.
Brrrr!
Entering a warm home feels even more bitter-cold for that brief moment before the heat registers.
Can't eat. Glass of wine (it's five o'clock somewhere...). Can't get him out of my head. Jesus, why am I so timid? Perhaps... No, 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 my share of men, nothing special. So far, I've had better luck by myself. Some interesting experiences with women, but I still prefer men. I live a pretty solitary existence. In my head, mostly. To the rest of the world, I'm kind of a geek, albeit a cute geek. But deep down, I'm a goddamn fireball (my little secret). Nobody but me knows about my alter ego. I've never let that part of myself venture out.
Hot shower. Scalding. Numbs my skin. Can't help but feel the water run over my curves. Close my eyes and imagine his eyes and hands and mouth. Remember hearing somewhere that skin is a sex 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 return, but it's fading. I know now that I have to see him again. If he's not there today, I'll masturbate until my hand falls off.
Full closet... still, no clothes made for this sort of adventure. Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative -- it's all we can do, right girls? Or, as my wise slut of a best friend used to say, "When in doubt, lose the bra," (of course, that was before we really needed the bra...).
Three long blocks. Blood pounding in my ears and my heart thumping so hard in my chest my coat is beating. What if he's not there? What if he is? Dangerous to find out either way.
A gust of wind follows me in and hot, bespectacled eyes welcome me. I walk past, careful not to trip over an overlarge molecule or something, as I've been known to do. Cinnamon Hazelnut, flavor of the day. The eyes follow me across the room and burn into my back. My breasts feel warm why is he watching me I can't believe this person is watching me nobody ever notices me breathe, breathe, breathe. And... turn.
Courage. Soft smile. Of all the empty seats in this place, I choose this one, here, across from him.
Across from you. (Guts, girl.) Earns me a sexy grin over a worn copy of Stephen King's
On Writing
