Coffee 30

It's the end of another long work week, which means another chance to engage in one of my favorite rituals: losing myself in the crowd at my favorite coffee shop, alone, but surrounded by people. I slide into a comfortable chair with a copy of the local underground newspaper and set down my large, overpriced, organic, fair-trade, decaf, slim, no-foam mocha latte.

Flipping open the front page of the newspaper, I stop to taste my latte and consider whether it is made up of more adjectives than the newspaper in my lap, and that's when I spot her. Across the room, a loud group of college students commandeers a table, dropping plenty of papers, books, laptops, and highly caffeinated beverages onto it. One of them tosses a bag off her shoulder, and in profile, I spot the most beautiful pair of breasts I've ever seen.

Her long, pink shirt is form-fitting (to say the least) and comes halfway down her hips, flaring in at her narrow waist and stretching taut at the hem. It's so tight around her chest that as she turns away from me, I can clearly make out the outline of her bra -- it's a two-catch, and I could snap it open with one hand. Or, if I keep staring like this, with the power of my mind alone.

Okay, so it's not just that I like the coffee here and there's usually a spot for me to sit by myself on a Friday night. The people-watching is pretty good too, and the fact that the local colleges are back in session doesn't hurt. I'm not here to pick anybody up but it doesn't hurt to look, right? Still, I remind myself to at least try to be polite, and drop my eyes back to the newspaper.

I take another sip of coffee and turn the page, scanning over but not actually reading the hipster-penned movie reviews ("film reviews", sorry) and the listings of bands I've never heard of playing in venues I've never been to. Pink Shirt laughs brightly and my attention is pulled again, her long eyelashes catching the harsh overhead light and her short wavy hair bobbing as she shares a joke with her friend.

She's impossibly pretty and almost certainly a bit too young for me. But she walks to the counter to order another drink, and I'm still transfixed. I imagine myself grasping the hem of her shirt and lifting slowly, sliding my hands smoothly over her tight stomach and up to those perfectly shaped breasts, cupping one in each hand and running the tips of my fingers gently over her nipples. She gasps and lifts her arms as I pull the shirt higher, bunching up the pink fabric and tossing it aside.

I spin her around and bury my face in her neck, kissing and licking and nipping at her collar. I deftly open the two catches -- with one hand, naturally -- and as the bra falls free of her shoulders I capture one lovely globe in my mouth, quickly finding a nipple and sliding a wet tongue over it, feeling it stiffen in my mouth as its twin stiffens between my finger and thumb.

I realize I haven't turned a page for several minutes. I'm also hard as steel, and thankful that my legs are crossed and the newspaper is doing a good job of hiding anything from view. I flip the page and steal another glance, and this time I actually catch her eyes: blue, brilliant, and looking right at me. Trying to play it cool -- no, I totally haven't been staring at your tits since you sat down, why do you ask? -- I casually drain the coffee and set the cup back down on the side table next to me.

With the mental image of her sparkling blue eyes burned into my memory, I manage to go back to appearing to read the paper. Lost in the sarcastic angst disguised as social commentary, not to mention my own fantasy world, it's several minutes before I look up again and notice the gaggle of students packing up and leaving. I'm sad to lose such an amazing piece of eye candy, but it's probably better for my bloodflow.

The back pages of the newspaper contain a highly-entertaining advice column written by a local, and I'm halfway through reading a somewhat salacious query when a torn-off sheet of notebook paper slides down the newspaper and lands in my lap. All that's written on it is a phone number, but a flash of pink underneath a brown winter jacket catches my peripheral vision, and as I look up towards the door, a long, glittering eyelash winks at me and disappears into the January night air.