Being seated on the open terrace of a café facing a broad square in warm sun watching the world go by and sipping at my second glass of the palest pink local rosé in April was ranking as one of the real pleasures of life. I had nowhere else to be, no one else to please; I was holidaying on my own in one of the most beautiful parts of the world.
My sunlight was suddenly partially blocked as drowsily I tried to read my book. I looked up to see a couple about my age and a younger woman, I presumed the couple's daughter. They stood on the terrace facing away from me, as if to find a free table: the terrace was busy, it was apparently the warmest and sunniest day for some weeks.
I observed the group. Usually, I have only a passing interest in the beauty of young women, my attraction being towards mature women of near and older my own age, mid-fifties. I guessed this young lady to be eighteen or nineteen, so I was more drawn to observing her mother, well-dressed, well-groomed and a confident manner - everything to stir my casual interest.
Just then, the breeze that had been rustling the square's traditional plane trees swept on to the terrace. It caught the very short skirt of the younger woman's brown sleeveless soft dress and revealed the tops of suntanned thighs, the small roundness of her suntanned buttocks and a thin triangle between them of black and white-patterned panties.
'What an unexpected treat,' I smiled to myself. It was certainly a very attractive sight, delicious, I thought. As I watched, the woman's hand reached down to brush her skirt back in position. At the same time, she turned towards the side of the terrace where I sat I assumed to look for any empty tables in this direction. Her gaze fixed on me as I was still staring back at her. My eyes were hidden by dark glasses, but she seemed to sense they were looking directly back at her.
She turned back to her parents but in her movement a pamphlet or map dropped from her hand. With a slow deliberate movement, she bent over to retrieve the document before the breeze could take it away. She did not squat or crouch down: she bent over. There could be only one reason she did so - and yes, as I stared the short skirt of her dress rode up and the full flesh of her tanned buttocks was staring back at me. I even had a brief moment to realise the pattern on her panties was black flowers on a white background.
She stood back up as her mother scolded her for not bending down properly - I couldn't tell whether out of propriety or concern for her daughter's back. The young woman turned slightly behind her and caught me again staring, the barest hint of a smile playing on her mouth. I offered back a similar smile, and, with the slightest of movements open to any interpretation, tipped the glass of rosé I had in my hand towards her and drank down the last gulp.
I made a spur of the moment decision. Standing up from the table, I called out to the couple, in my clumsy French, Madame, Monsieur - I am leaving, please take my table. All three now turned in my direction as I picked up my bill and reached for my wallet. Politenesses were exchanged as a waiter stepped forward, took my bill and the twenty euro note and started to fuss over his new clients who were thanking me as they walked past to the table. If anyone had cared to look, there was a now prominent bulge in my admittedly tightish trousers.
As I walked away, I called back more loudly than necessary to the waiter - Monsieur, les toilettes? - knowing full well that the facilities were situated down a wooden staircase in the main building along a narrow but brightly lit corridor.
