I saw her yesterday, and I am still a little unsettled by it, to be honest.I was at my usual perch,
I saw her yesterday, and I am still a little unsettled by it, to be honest.I was at my usual perch, by the window at Tania’s, third cup in hand. Working. Well, feigning work.Trying to bleed out a few lines.Failing, mostly.I looked up from the screen and there she was, across the street, on the sidewalk. Had she just come from the bookstore down the block?I don’t know. She was waiting. Waiting for him, I assumed. Waiting for him and his yellow Porsche – who the fuck buys a 911 in canary yellow, I ask you. Him and his rolex and his house in the Hamptons and his social-register-old-money-trust-fund-arrogance. Him and his mommy dearest and his 1%-er cock. I was feeling the Bern.Yesterday was grey. A day the color of resignation. It looked like rain, didn’t it. Mother Nature simply couldn’t work up the energy to make that happen, so it remained a stubborn default grey. You want sun, she seemed to be saying, then get another fucking Mother Nature. And then suddenly there she was, a shocking stab of color, played against a monotone palette. She’s the kind of girl who delights in saying “fuck you” even with how she dresses, and so she was wearing this little cotton sundress on a day without sun.And the occasional, half-hearted breeze and the brevity of the dress periodically combined to threaten civil disorder. The hem of her dress was a misdemeanor as it was, and it promised to go full felony should a stiff breeze blow. I watched her, intently. How could I not? As she moved – her small, incremental, incidental movements. Just standing there, doing nothing but waiting – how could I help but examine her?Relive her. OK, relive her.Her every line, her every gesture, her every curve a song I had sung a thousand times.How could I not?I knew how it would feel, the soft barely-there cotton slipping under my fingers, following the gentle arc of her bottom, and how the hem of her dress would retreat up, over that arc as I squeezed her flesh. I knew – because I had lived it a thousand times – how my hands would feel, sliding to her waist as if the two body parts – my hands, her midriff – were built to be mated. Mortice and tenon. I knew, and I relived, the sensation of my hands running under, then lifting, the hem of her dress, from her thighs to her neck – the warmth of her skin on one side and the cool brush of the fabric on the other.And suddenly, I realized where I was, in the coffee shop, and I wondered just how transparent I had been.Pretty transparent, as it turns out – the sweet teenage barista staring gape-mouthed at me – and so it looks as though I might have to find a new place to write pretend to write.[Please don’t remove the text from this post. Thank you] -- source link