the girl

she walks alone, her face the epitome  of concentration, her body, rigid and straight, her behind unmoving under the starched fabric of the short dress. her hair is caught in a very severe ponytail, bobbing in time with the click-clack of her heels. the only part that apparently cannot be tamed and made to march with the rest of her, is her magnificent chest that moves to its own tune, despite the complicated harness she might have underneath.  

her toned long legs never break stride, gathering all the coffee drinkers attention and returning it a hundredfold. it reminds me of tha simple physics experiment with sun rays and lenses we used to do so long ago, for which i stole my grandfather’s glasses, and was punished by no books for a month. painful memories.

lwe look at her. my partner’s eyes are open, his pupils dilated, his frappe in a crooked glass and me in a wicker chair, forgotten for the moment, his hand lukewarm on my waist and nothing more. i don’t really blame him. the girl is a one woman army on a mission to conquer, and she is taking no prisoners. God, pity the fool.

as she leaves our vision, his attention returns to me, a bit more effusively than necessary, the hand suddenly alive and patting my waist for some reason, his eyes apologetic, and his ears chili pepper red.

i wonder if he knows how much effort went into the creation of that girl-vision, how many hours of careful plucking, expert waxing and tanning, painful blowdry and strange masks. but then my jealosy is showing so i shake it off. i could look like that if i wanted. or if i made the effort. and frankly, my table companion does not deserve the effort. but the frappe is good so i continue to sip it, sitting contendently and letting him try to make it up to me.

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