The Barista

I looked up and down the platform for Track 12 and marveled at the number of bodies waiting for the train to pull into the station. I'd taken the commuter service from New Haven to New York many times before and couldn't ever remember the platform being quite so crowded. It was a beautiful Friday in late May, however, and that may have had accounted for the long line of bodies waiting for the train to pull in from the yard.

The empty 8:05 finally rolled backwards into Track 12 and as the automatic doors opened, the linear crowd clustered into smaller groups at each portal to climb aboard. I was in no hurry as I knew there'd be plenty of seats available once the crowd entered the cars and dispersed.

I finally entered the train, turned left, and scanned that section of the car to find a seat. It was at that instant that our eyes met and that little twinge of recognition took place. She had her hair down and looked a little different, as someone always does when you see them out of context. But it was definitely a familiar face and a friendly look of recognition.

"Grace?" I blurted out.

"Hi Jack," she responded with more than a bit of enthusiasm, mixed with surprise, in her voice.

It was an instantaneous decision I had to make: say a quick hello and keep moving or ask to join her. I eyed the empty seat next to her and spoke before I even knew what I was saying.

"What a pleasant surprise. Mind if I sit with you?"

There. I'd said it. Too late to back out now.

"Of course," she replied. Perhaps she was just being polite, as I'd put her on the spot. But the warmth of her response spoke otherwise.

"Excellent," I said as I threw my pack up onto the rack overhead and sat down for what would prove to be one of the better snap decisions of my entire life.

Grace is a barista at the local coffee shop that I frequent pretty much every day. While I'm only recently semi-retired, I still go into the office several days a week. My commercial real estate firm is located on the top floor of an old converted mill building not too far from the UConn campus. The coffee shop on the ground floor is a place I still visit on a regular basis, sometimes twice a day when working, and the baristas are usually students working to help pay their way through school.

The owner of the shop seems to have an eye for talent as the young ladies working there are usually very attractive. Grace certainly fit that description. We had never exchanged more than a few words, but she was always friendly and a bit of a flirt. She had a beautiful smile that made paying $2.25 for a medium coffee somehow worthwhile. I always tipped well.

"So what brings you to New York, if that's where you're headed?" I inquired with genuine interest as I settled into my seat and the train lurched out of the station, right on time. I knew that Grace was just about to start a graduate program in Linguistics at the University, but didn't know much else about her outside interests.

"Well, I am going to New York. I haven't been down to the city in a while and there's a Gauguin exhibit at MOMA that I wanted to see and I've been hearing about the High Line and I wanted to check that out." She beamed that marvelous smile of hers as she continued. "Just figured I was due for a solo trip. I love visiting the city and don't get down as often as I should."

"So you're just going down for the day?" I asked.

"Well, I may stay tonight with a college roommate in Brooklyn, or I may head home. I'll figure that out as I go." She absolutely glowed as she spoke. I was transfixed. "I'm just playing it by ear," she said with a smile that almost melted my brain.

"Well, you're traveling awfully light if you're doing an overnight," I claimed with a smile, looking at the small leather bag she had with her. It looked more like a large purse than an overnight bag.

"Well, I don't need much - a toothbrush and a change of underwear," she offered. "Pretty compact," she grinned. I smiled at the thought, wondering what color panties she had tucked into a corner of her bag. "I believe in traveling light if I don't know what the future holds in store."

"Makes perfect sense to me," I replied, eyeing the lithe length of her 5'-7" frame; her lean legs crossed demurely.

"What about you, Jack? What brings you to New York?" she asked. "If that's where you're going," she added with a smile.

"I'm just going down for fun," I replied. "Photography is a serious hobby of mine and I love to go to the city and walk the streets and just shoot what I see. I'm heading down for the night, however. I have a hotel, down off the High Line, actually, and I'll stroll the Village and Soho later, grab a bite somewhere. I grew up in the suburbs and New York has always been in my blood. I just need a fix every so often," I offered. "Guess we both have a problem," I joked.

Grace seemed genuinely interested as I spoke and even though I probably had about 40 years on her - my guess was that she was 23 - there was a distinctive twinkle in her eye as we talked. Perhaps I was projecting, but it sure seemed like we had a warm connection that was very real.

At 64 I have still managed to maintain my slender 6'-1" physique and, though my hair is very short, I do my best to keep a youthful outlook on life. I used to think anything north of sixty was an advanced age. But, honestly, I feel better than I ever have in my life and appreciate life now, and women, in a way that was impossible in my youth. While I usually dressed fairly casually, the city warranted a bit of an upgrade. So I was wearing tan jeans, a white shirt and a casual black sport coat that day.

I'd always admired Grace when she was serving my coffee and making change. I was subtle about my leering, of course, but enjoyed sizing up her long lean body. I loved looking at her ass when she was turned with her back to me, drawing coffee from the machine. She had one of those pert little bubble butts that looked so good in snug jeans and had to be phenomenal out of them. It was quite obvious that she had very nice breasts as well; a solid C cup from what I could see. But I was used to seeing her in work attire - black jeans, a wrinkled button down shirt, sneakers and hair up - and here she was with tresses flowing and dressed for a solo day in the city.

She was wearing a pair of skin-tight gray jeans, a tight and fairly low-cut black top and a stylish short brown leather jacket. I couldn't help but notice the open toed sandals that appeared to have a little lift to them. Her sandy blond hair was down, hanging in rich waves of luster, framing her pretty face and partially covering the large hoop earrings that dangled in a very subtle sexy way. She had on just enough make-up to accent her big blue eyes. Plus there was just a hint of cleavage on display that I did my best to try and ignore. She had a little bit of a New York thing going on and she wore it well. Her pretty face was alive with the excitement of a trip to the big city and her translucent skinned glowed with the vibrancy of youth.

I guess what set Grace apart from so many other women her age was this sense of innocence that I felt accompanied her considerable beauty. Perhaps it was an act, but I didn't think so. There was a natural "girl-next-door" quality to her allure that couldn't be faked. Yet it still seemed that she was somewhat unaware of her considerable charms and wasn't as impressed with her looks as others certainly were, or certainly I was. I found myself wondering if she had any idea how incredibly sexy she was. Maybe she did. Maybe she just hid that side of her personae in public. Certainly it had led me in the past to wonder what she must be like in bed; whether she was experienced, and if she might be one of those woman who transform themselves behind closed door. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever find out.

We conversed easily as the train rumbled down through Bridgeport and Stamford. I probed gently on her story and found out she had grown up outside Hartford, did her undergraduate studies at a small liberal arts college in Vermont and had moved to Storrs the previous year to eventually attend graduate school. She had spent several summers working and living in New York and had an affinity for the urban scene, as did I. Her work at the coffee shop was a temporary job to help pay the bills.

She seemed equally interested in my back story and I swore she smiled a little when I told her I was a widower and on my own in the city. She asked about my business and family and, eventually, the conversation drifted back to my photography. She seemed to know a little bit about cameras and asked what kind of camera I had. I took the opportunity to grab my bag down from the rack and pulled out my Nikon. I handed it to her and she held it up like it was extremely delicate.

"Wow. This is a little bigger than my point and shoot," she exclaimed. "It's so heavy."

"Here," I directed as I lifted the camera up to her face. "You have to look through the lens on a camera like this and hold the lens in the other hand."

There was something highly erotic watching her slender manicured fingers wrapped around the girth of my lens. I could have sworn she was teasing me a little as she twisted the telephoto lens in and out and watched to see my reaction.

"Man. This is a really cool lens," she said as she pointed the camera at me, zoomed and clicked a shot. "Amazing."

"It is, but you're pointing it the wrong way," I stated as I put my hand out and she handed the camera back to me.

I put it up to my eye and focused in as her beautiful face filled up my view finder. I did what came naturally and snapped a few quick shots as she looked directly into the lens. I could tell in those first few seconds that she was naturally photogenic. I turned the camera around so we could both see the small screen on the back and clicked through the 4 or 5 shots I'd taken. They were stunning.

"Geez, Grace. You're a natural in front of the camera. I just shot these quickly and look at them," I exclaimed. She looked on, but didn't say anything. "You are one very beautiful woman."

I hadn't meant to blurt out such a bold blatant statement; it had just come out. Fact was, it was true. I was just stating the obvious. But I was also concerned that I might have overstepped my bounds and made her uncomfortable. I looked at her carefully to gauge her reaction.

"Thank you, Jack," she replied with a shy smile, a little embarrassed by my bluntness, but appreciative of the compliment. I put the camera down on my lap and looked into those beautiful blue eyes. Her lips were intoxicatingly supple. I decided to try and right the ship - or possibly sink it.

"I'm serious, you know. I can tell you'd make a great model. Some women, even pretty ones, don't always photograph well. Others, like yourself, just have a natural ability to connect with the camera. It's an innate thing some women are born with, I guess. You have the gene in spades, Grace," I gushed. Now maybe I'd overdone it. But, the fact was, I was only stating an honest and obvious observation.

She put her head down, perhaps a bit taken aback by my honesty, but I could tell from her body language and expression that she was pleased with the comment and it had not offended her in the slightest.

"Thank you, Jack. You're embarrassing me," she said softly and a bit shyly. But her smile belied her mild discomfort and she adjusted in her seat so she was facing me a bit more, her long lean thighs now angled toward my seat. "You sound like an expert at photographing women," she opined.

"No, not really. I've shot a few female friends over the years. My family. I've never actually shot a model, in fact. I'd love to, but just never had the opportunity." She smiled as I rambled on.

"I bet there are plenty of women who would like to pose for you, Jack. You just need to ask," she said without batting an eye.

I changed the subject as the train slowed and crossed the East River, stopping at the 125th Street station. We'd be going underground soon and easing into Grand Central Station within 15 minutes. An idea had been brewing in my mind and, if I was going to ask the question, now was the time.

"Listen, Grace. You may be coming down to the city to have a nice day on your own and get away from the daily grind back in Connecticut. I guess, in a way, that's what I'm doing. But if you'd like company for a little bit, I'd love taking in MOMA with you and then showing you the High Line, since we're both headed down that way anyway."

There. I'd said it, and not without some doubts. I followed up quickly to make sure she knew she had an out. I could see her pondering.

"But please know, if you'd rather hang by yourself, I will completely understand and don't want you to feel embarrassed to tell me just that." I figured I should stop talking before I put another foot in my mouth. But her emerging smile told me how she would answer before the words ever came out of her mouth.

"Jack, that would be so much fun. Thank you. Yes, I'd love it. But please don't let me ruin your plans either. I'm perfectly fine taking care of myself," she added, allowing me an out as well.

"Grace, I'd be a fool to want to plod around New York by myself when I could be in such pleasant company." God, she looked beautiful as I blabbed on. The thought of spending the day wandering the streets of New York with her put me on cloud nine. "Let's do it!"

Our conversation came to a conclusion just as the train lurched to a stop and we both made our slow exit down the long platform into the station. We detoured into the main concourse in Grand Central, awash with the late May sun, and stood marveling at the scene. It was a space that I never got tired of and a wonderful way to arrive in New York. I clicked a few photos as we stood there with the slanted sun streaming through the tall arched windows.

Now, standing twenty feet away, I suddenly was seeing the whole package that was Grace. The skinny jeans she was wearing were obviously of some sort of stretchy material because they conformed to the sinuous curves of her lower body like a second skin. In addition the lift of her sandals stretched her legs the way heels of any sort do on a woman and augmented the incredible shape of her ass and the long sleek muscularity of her well-defined legs. I had certainly noticed this shape before, but never with such definition nor in such attire. And, certainly, when I'd ogled her body before she'd always been behind a counter in work mode; not standing in a grand public space in a pair of sinful jeans.

The wavy blond hair, dangly earrings, stylish leather jacket, all framing her beautiful young face, just completed the package. She was one of the most strikingly beautiful women I'd ever laid eyes on. The furtive, and some not-so-furtive, glances from passers-by of both sexes just confirmed my own assessment. I could obsess each and every part of her anatomy and being, but it was the glory of the whole that was so astonishing. And, at least for the time being, she was with me.

I caught Grace looking up at the ceiling with a beatific expression on her face. I quickly snapped a couple of shots, but not before she noticed.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I can't resist taking a few more photos of you. Are you going to mind if I take a few while we're here?"

"Well I don't know why you'd want to take photographs of me when there is so much else to shoot...and so many beautiful women to boot," she added, sweeping her hand around the concourse.

This was true. New York was crawling with gorgeous women and was a constant source of delight for an old fellow like me. But Grace was selling herself short. And her natural way in front of the camera was like an intoxicating drug to me. I was going to have to temper my enthusiasm, lest I drive her crazy.

"Well, the paparazzi heard you were in town and are out in force. I'll fend them off, best I can," I joked.

"Jack, you can take pictures of whatever you want," she replied. "I'm truly flattered."

I looked at her innocent face and perfect posture and just wanted to jump for joy. I tried not to put too much into the broad scope she'd just proposed, but she had certainly left a door open for further discussion. I could tell this was going to be one marvelous day.

We weaved our way from Grand Central over to 5th Avenue and up ten blocks to the Museum of Modern Art. We spent an hour or so wandering the Gauguin exhibit and a few of the other interesting galleries. I took plenty of photos of some of the dramatic spaces, but also kept veering back to catch a shot or two of Grace when she wasn't looking. At one point I had to address my photographic obsession or I might drive her crazy.

"Grace, I hope you don't mind me taking shots of you as we spend the afternoon together. Your face is so expressive and you carry yourself so regally. Are you sure you never modeled before?" I asked in all seriousness.

"You are quite the flatterer, Jack," she said with a smile that showed that she enjoyed the compliment. "But, no, no modeling in this girl's past."

"Good," I replied. "I feel like I've found a diamond in the rough. And as long as you don't mind and are patient with me, I'll take enough shots this afternoon that you'll have some nice photos of your own once I've edited them. Deal?"

"Deal," she said, holding out her hand to shake. Her slender grip was warm and stronger than I would have expected. I couldn't help but notice how nicely our hands meshed together.

We were finally museumed out, so we caught a cab and headed down to the south end of the Javits Center and crossed West 33rd Street to the start of the High Line. It was fun to point out various points of interest as we meandered south. The High Line is busy any time of year now, but it always draws a crowd on a beautiful warm day. We strolled slowly down the path, bought hot dogs at a street stand, and I continued to click photos left and right. Many of them were focused on the buildings and activity in the area, but more than a few of them were of Grace and many of those were candid shots.

At one point we came to a wide section of the walk and we wandered over to a railing looking over 10th Avenue. Grace had sunglasses up on the top of her head and her leather jacket was somewhat open, revealing the curvy line of her breasts and a subtle hint of cleavage.

"Okay," I instructed. "I'm going to be obnoxious and take a series of shots of you. I don't want you to smile or look at the camera. Watch people, look at the sky, or the buildings; anything, but the lens. Just ignore me, if you can, and let me just shoot for a couple minutes."

She didn't say a word, just struck a pose - a rather sexy one, in fact - and began to slowly look about. I orbited around her, taking rapid photos. I know that folks walking by probably thought I was shooting a model, and, in a sense, I was. Grace had this uncanny ability to play to the camera without even trying. I was totally absorbed in her realm and doing my best to capture her pure and utterly beautiful spirit. I took as many photos as felt comfortable, then put my camera away as we continued to walk.

"You're amazing," I stated, shaking my head. She thanked me with a gracious smile as we continued south.

Over the course of the next hour I took every opportunity I could to take photos of Grace. I was drawn to her form and the personality that came so clearly through the lens. She also became emboldened as the shutter continued to click, and seemed to be embracing the notion of me taking photographs, as opposed to being turned off by my constant attention.

Several times I caught her off guard or looking up at something and unaware of my lens pointed at her. Her natural beauty and graceful presence just radiated at times and I did my best to capture her essence. I didn't stop to review my photos; I just kept clicking, afraid I was going to miss a perfect moment. But my gut told me that I was, actually we were, going to be very pleased by the end results.