I walk down the corridor to 6E and open the door. The berth consists of two padded bench seats facing each other, storage racks up top, and a nice sized window for viewing the lush Countryside. There is enough room for four people to sit comfortably. I wondered how many other passengers are assigned to the same berth.
This is my first trip to Europe, and I am as giddy as a schoolboy.
After stowing my bags I settle down and make myself comfortable. The first leg of the early morning trip is wonderful. I watch mile after mile of rolling hills pass by my window. It is fun to watch people starting their day along the way. It all looks so peaceful. With difficulty, I finally pull my eyes away from the window to finish reading the gripping novel I started on the flight. I remain blissfully buried in my book until we reach the first stop.
Just as the train starts to pull out of the station SHE enters the berth. I look up from my book and say "hello" to a very attractive dark haired lady wearing sunglasses. She glances my way, but says nothing.
It is not possible to read anything in her response. Is she friendly, aloof, shy,.... who knows? Maybe she does not speak English. However, it seems like her glance lingers unusually long, almost like she is making an evaluation of me.
As she turns to place her bag up on the rack, I get a glimpse of her incredibly lovely legs. Her thin ankles are a contrast to her full calves. She must be athletic. Even the backs of her knees have muscular dimples. Maybe she is a swimmer. As she reaches up, I admire her toned thighs as her skirt rises eight inches above her knees. She is wearing dark stockings, which are almost the same color as her gray skirt. Her behind is taut and her waist is wasp tiny.
She is an absolute vision of youth and beauty!
She turns to sit and I immediately go back to my book. Surely she did not see me looking at her legs, but I am embarrassed anyway. It is not proper for me to be looking at her like that. After all, I must be quite older than she.
I wonder how much older? My look at her face was all too brief. Is she a young looking 27-year-old woman, or perhaps a mature looking 17-year-old girl? What an intriguing question. I find that I am completely focused on this issue as I pretend to read. My visual cortex is in high gear but it produces no conclusive evidence either way.
Her clothing is a bit more helpful. Her outfit looks like a blend between a very fashionable business ensemble and elegant cocktail attire. Her matador style jacket covers a light blue silk blouse. Her mid-thigh length pleated skirt is made of wool. The dark stockings have a thin seam running up from her heels, which are shod in stylish spectator shoes.
I conclude that her breeding is high, she has expensive tastes in clothes, and she is definitely not interested in having company on this trip.
My novel is absolutely riveting. After three more chapters I stop to rest my eyes. I put the book in my lap and peek at my fellow passenger. She is thumbing through a fashion magazine, which she is holding high enough that I cannot see her face. This is an opportunity to let my eyes wander.
For the first time I get a glimpse of her upper torso as she turns the pages. Her jacket is semi form fitting, and is shapely enough to give me an image of youthful firm breasts. I look at her knee, which is crossed over the other, and follow it down, past her calves to her toes, which are dangling a shoe in mid air.
The rocking of her foot is as hypnotic as a musician's metronome. With each swing of the shoe her calf muscles flex delightfully. Through the silk stockings I see that her tanned skin is unblemished. The lovely sight enchants me. My pulse involuntarily quickens.
My trance is suddenly broken as she puts the magazine on the bench and reaches in her bag for another one. My eyes dart back to my book as I am slapped back to reality. Did she catch me looking? For the second time, I feel ashamed of myself. I am not a voyeur. What is wrong with me?
She stretches and yawns, removes her jacket and folds it on the seat next to her. Even with my head down, I can still see her pert breasts. The outline of her low cut bra is visible through her blouse. When she breathes the rise of her breasts float above the lacy cups of her bra, just a little, but enough for my eyes to drink in.
My eyes are directed toward my book, but my attention secretly remains on her.
For a couple of minutes she is still, looking out the window. Then she crosses her legs and opens the new magazine. Her magazine is again shielding her face, but this time it is folded in half. I glance up for only a split second. Did I really see what I think? I look again.
Yes! The magazine has pictures of beautiful women, some in swim wear, some in casual clothing, and some have partially exposed breasts as they dance through the scenery. As she turns the pages the models become more beautiful... and even more revealing. "So this is Europe," I think to myself.
