Spilled a little cappuccino on my white skirt. The brown stain spreads like a sunspot, an areola. The waiter glances back at my discomfort with a contemptuous smirk. I smile back sharply, an unspoken fuck you. My nails tap impatiently at the green patio table. Don't know what I am waiting for.
Fuck I just bought that skirt, dry clean only.
I have a good view of Richmond Street from my seat on the patio. I take off my shoes to let my bare feet feel the scorching cobblestone. A small man in a gray suit drops a cigarette into his coffee cup and takes a sip. Did that just happen? Shake my head and pull out my own crumpled pack from my small handbag. The smoke halos around my red hair, obscures my features like a murderer in the fog.
Just as I finish the first puff, my cellphone rings, the tinny notes grating on my worn nerves. It's Tom. I ask him how he got this number. He laughs cruelly and demands that I give him back the ring. I say that I lost it down the drain. Hang up before he can call my bluff; this morning I pawned the engagement ring he gave me. Only got twenty dollars.
Five grand my ass, Tommy.
The smell of car exhaust is choking me; air thick with the stench of modern day living. My feet swing freely under the table, and I absently pick at a blue napkin, ripping out little faces, crumple them up. Stub out my cigarette in the overflowing ashtray-where is that fucking waiter? Grin at the thought of him and Tom making out late at night in the middle of Victoria Park, unshaven faces rubbing together like the legs of crickets.
A tall blonde woman in a dark red dress interrupts my daydream. Across the street, now crosses to this side. Her legs are smooth, recently waxed. She's probably bald between her thighs. Her lips are pencil thin. Confident words spill out of that mouth, I can tell by the way she carries herself. I look down to my lap at the now set coffee stain.
I wonder if it would show if my skirt was red.
She strides onto the patio, her tall black stilettos clicking off the pavement. Sits at a table opposite mine. She stares straight through me while ordering a double espresso. I notice that the waiter is considerably more polite to her. Take a sip from my now cold cappuccino, as she receives her order. The waiter pointedly ignores me as he passes by. Take perverse pleasure in the thought of hurling the cup at the back of his fastidiously styled head, his blood dancing off concrete.
The woman has noticed my malicious smile. I look down quickly; my illicit fantasy has been observed, invaded.
I glare at the butts littering the clear glass ashtray. Peek up. Good she isn't looking at me any more. Her breasts are firm, not large but still full. Eyes cold grey, filled with dark pooling irises. The dress is cut low at the top. She's wearing a push up bra, black lace fringe poking up under the red fabric. I feel tightness below the silk of my own bra; my nipples are hard, tense. Are hers? I blush at the thought. Oh shit, I hope she didn't see that. I know how red I get when I'm embarrassed.
Or horny.
She reaches down into a slim red handbag. Pulls out a gold cigarette case and takes out a long smoke. Bitch sticks. That's what Tom used to call them. Lights it with a Zippo shaped like a pistol. Cute. Her panties probably have Winnie the Pooh on them. No, they'd definitely match her bra. She's too…complete to be that iconoclastic. The lighter is an anomaly.
A cab tears through a red light on Central ave. Almost hits a young man in a Tommy Hilfiger jacket. He flips the bird to the oblivious cabbie already en route to an unknown destination. Turns his head in the direction of the woman. And myself. I notice the young man has a hard on. Is it the woman, the red dress or the close encounter with mortality that has awakened his desire?
A gauzy image of the woman and i giving this anonymous man a blowjob pops into my head. She focuses on his glans and shaft, while I tackle his shaven balls. Get the skin between his sack and his asshole slick with my spit.
I have lit another cigarette. I don't remember doing so. The woman in red is gone. I feel momentary panic. Wait, she's back. Must have gone to powder her nose.
My relief is startling. So is the cum that has soaked my cotton g-string. The waiter chooses this moment to disrupt my discomfort. Order another cappuccino. He saunters off before I can ask for a fresh ashtray.
Bastard.
The red dress is short and form fitting; if she bent over I could tell if she is wearing a thong or not. Possibly even catch a peek of the fabric. Silk or cotton? Silk. I'm certain of that. She sips on her espresso delicately, licks her lips softly after swallowing. She would do the same after choking down a load of cum. Would not spit it out.
The summer heat is making me sweat. My yellow tank is stained under the armpits. Stuck tight to my back. The woman looks as if she walked off the set of a deodorant commercial; cool and dry like arctic tundra.
Our eyes lock.
It's as if she can read my thought, my desires. She pulls a wayward tuft of blonde hair put of her face. Her lips curl at the side slightly into a sensuous smile. My smoke has burned down to the filter. I toss the scorched butt onto the ground.
