The hostess seated the couple two tables away from me against the wall, where they sat next to each other instead of across. The woman wore that wet-lipped, wide-eyed expression that some girls use to make the man they're with think he's the center of their universes. At first I thought she might be of Korean ancestry, but after watching her smooth Asian features, buttery skin and wide mouth, I decided she must be Chinese-American. She was too practiced in American body language to actually be from China, careful not to overuse the way she stuck out her not-too-large tits to send the message, "I want to suck your dick and make you blind." She was tall for a woman; her black, shoulder-length hair had highlights and color variation enough to keep it from looking like it was poured from a ladle of heavy black oil, the way some Japanese like to wear it. She was slim without being anorexic.
The man she was with was an ordinary skinny white guy, with a PDA headset hooked on his ear. He seemed to have no special qualities other than being a foot taller; he had no chin to speak of. His hair looked like his best friend had chopped it off to save him money, and he hadn't shaved in a day or two. I'd never let a scrub-brush like that near my groin. Nonetheless, she spent plenty of time convincing him that he'd like to taste her pussy. She scooted close to him and stropped him like a cat; she rubbed her breasts on his arm as if marking him with pheromones. That was when she noticed me noticing her.
The waitress, a lovely Indian woman in a tight-fitting sari, glided up to take their orders; she stood in front of them, aiming her trim backside at me and blocking my view of the two. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, drawing my attention to the sari pulled taut across the curves of her butt. The girl at the table went to the restroom after the waitress left. Her path went in front of my table and then straight away, so that I could see her first in profile and then from the rear. She wore a tight white stretch top and jeans that looked like a tattoo; when she walked away toward the Ladies', I could see she was wearing a bra, but I couldn't see that there was any room at all in those pocketless jeans for panties. Every synchronized swing and sway of her cheeks was as visible as an ambulance flasher. The one or two extra pounds she carried on her butt looked deliberate, as if she'd spent days designing her "look-at-me" rear view, which ran like a four-cycle engine: roll, squeeze, rock, ka-ching!
When she returned, she smiled right at me with red-glossed lips, her back straight to push her nicely shaped breasts forward, which bounced enough to prove reality. She reclaimed her seat in time for the appetizers to arrive and sat even closer to him. She tried her food and fed him a tempting morsel, as if to say, "You think that tastes good, wait till you get your tongue inside me." It worked on me, but I'm not sure it did on him; he held the PDA limply in his hand and nodded in time to some unheard drummer. She talked to him anyway.
The slight lilt to her voice made me think she might have been educated in England; a certain plumpness to her vowels made me think she had grown up in a home where something other than English was spoken most of the time, yet she, unlike other family members, was expected to assimilate and speak only English. I had finished most of my meal, but I called the waitress over and ordered more idli with a bowl of sambar to have an excuse to stay and watch. I pretended to read my book.
