I looked over my lunch date’s shoulder, as we ate garlic-and-chili tofu and rice. I can’t even say exactly why the girl in the corner of the restaurant distracted me so much; or maybe it’s as simple as what she was wearing. She was blond; long, wavy hair. My best guess puts in her late […]
I looked over my lunch date’s shoulder, as we ate garlic-and-chili tofu and rice.
I can’t even say exactly why the girl in the corner of the restaurant distracted me so much; or maybe it’s as simple as what she was wearing.
She was blond; long, wavy hair. My best guess puts in her late twenties, though early or mid thirties might not be far off. She had a pretty, round face, and a figure you might call lush, or less flatteringly, round or plump. She had that pretty, shy look, like she had no idea how good looking she was.
She was wearing a Motörhead tee-shirt; I noticed this second, after I noticed that she was pretty. I have the exact same shirt.
I was looking at her over my lunch date’s shoulder; she looked up, looked away, down at her menu, then looked back at me. She blushed, I think, her pale cheeks coloring just slightly.
Maybe she knew me from work; I don’t know. When I later walked out, I caught a glimpse of a work id at her belt. Or maybe she just liked me looking at her, or in her insecurity, wondered why I might stare.
She was eating with two men, one asian, one not; both geeks. I could imagine them discussing gaming, or operating systems, or which Rush album was best. Co-workers, not boyfriends; Body language made that clear. She was one of the boys. I had an eye on her, without seeming to stare, all through lunch.
Later, when I walked out, I looked at her from another angle. She was in jeans, a little too small for her but in a good way. I wanted to see her standing, walking. I wanted to see her ass.
The t-shirt had ridden up slightly. She wasn’t wearing it that way in purpose; I’ll bet she feels too fat. A soft curve of skin showed between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her tee-shirt, creamy-pale against indigo denim and jet black shirt.
I imagined the feel of her skin, soft against my palm. The contrast of rough denim and soft, soft hip. Pictured stepping close behind her, one hand there, fingers inside the waist of her jeans; one in her hair, pulling her head back against my shoulder, turning her face to kiss me.
“You are getting into my head,” I wish I could tell her. From across the room; your face, your hair, your cool, rock-n-roll tee-shirt. Because when you reach across a room full of strangers and grab someone’s attention, get in someone’s head, you should know about it.
Motörhead girl, I want to kiss you.