Sitting in the Cafe

I was just sitting, minding my own business, enjoying a cup of the café's freshly brewed Sumatra coffee flavored with only a pack of sugar, with some righteous book Freud in front of me, when I saw her. She was standing in line, one from the register, legs spread slightly apart as she drummed her short black polished nails on the wide leather strap of her book bag.

I wouldn't exactly call her "drop dead gorgeous" or a "man killer" or whatever they categorize women these days. This girl was more of the "silent and sexy" kind; a little bookworm meets punk-Goth meets little girl innocence all tied together with all natural sexiness. I leaned forward a bit and took a sip of my coffee as I let my eyes follow the line of her body.

She was about five-six; add on a couple of inches with the black combat boots she was wearing. Being the punk-Goth-bookworm, she was in baggy black cargos, the kind your see in Hot Topic with the steel D-rings in some of the loops, but they were only baggy on the legs and I could see the sweet cuppable curve of her ass and her boyishly trim hips. From there, I caught glimpses of a black sleeveless T-shirt, sleeves ripped off, from between the long tresses of her dark honey-blonde hair. I immediately liked the shirt, it let me admire her smooth skin, the smooth curve of her shoulder, and the almost willowy length of her arm, all the way down to her right wrist, which was decorated with a tattoo of what I believed were small black cats running around her wrist.

And damn, that hair, that beautiful fucking hair. Long, very long, a couple inches past her hips. It wasn't cut straight. Instead, it had the jagged look of free-growing hair, if that was even an existing term. Some of the ends curled a little and my hands itched a little to touch it, to run my fingers through it to see if it was as silky as I thought it was.

She moved up in the line, got to the register and she ordered her drink. A few seconds later, she reached into her book bag, took out one of those slim black leather wallets, and she took out a credit card, swiped it, signed, and went to wait at the bar at the end of the counter. Now she was closer and I got a better look at her front. Flat belly, maybe a hint of very well-formed abs under what was revealed to be a System of a Down band T-shirt. The sleeves were ripped off, or cut-off, who knows with the style. The collar band was also cut out, and cut low. I got a glimpse of hard nipples on her modestly-sized but beautiful breasts through the stretchy material.

I gave a small sigh when she leaned down to flick some lint or whatever from her pant leg. Her gently bent posture allowed me a glorious view of the sweet natural crevice between her breasts and I felt transfixed as I admired it. With the café lighting, the shadows were perfect, accenting that tender curve, and that skin, that golden creamy skin. I think what really stirred me was the three mole cluster that graced her left collarbone. I wondered to myself where else she had moles.

As she waited for her drink, she turned to lean against the counter and I finally got to see that face of hers. All this time she'd been looking away, or her hair, that luxurious mass, had been hiding her. But when I saw her, I knew the wait was worth it.

She was beautiful, elegant, graceful ... she was perfect. The hair framed her face and a few stray wisps kissed her cheek. She had those very sexy sleepy eyes, you know, the ones that a woman has when she's just gotten out of bed, those sultry and seductive eyes. And their color, brown, a pure, unadulterated chocolate-brown surrounded with long luxurious lashes. I couldn't tell if she was wearing make-up, nowadays there was make-up that women used to look like they weren't wearing make-up but you would know that they were. I try and not think about it too much. Her other facial features, the straight Anglican nose, strong cheekbones, and the stunning poutty lips enhanced just a little with some of that wet gloss the younger generation likes to use, were equally stunning and went in harmony with her attire.

My eyes traveled a few inches lower and I saw something that truly perked my interest. Around her throat was a choker, no, more like collar. It was less than one inch wide, black leather, with a small enforced loop in the front to hold the stainless steel ring. I swallowed and wondered if she just wore it for fashion or was there perhaps a more practical, more literal use for the accessory.

Her drink came and she wrapped her slender hand out around it and headed my way. Her walk, oh, her walk, let me tell you about her walk. Some women do the exaggerated hip swing with enough umph to knock down walls, or the stab-the-ground-with-your-feet walk. Other women do the mannish swagger, while others have the capabilities to do the infamous and graceful gliding walk that only one-in-one-thousand can do. But this woman, this beautiful creature that was getting closer and closer to me, walked the way my dream lady walked: a gently sway in her hips, inviting and delicate, while her feet totally cleared the ground, no scuffling, no dragging, no nothing. She carried herself with confidence, her spine straight and slightly arched so her breasts strained just a little more against the T-shirt.

She breezed by me, her hair shining under the lights, and she left behind a tantalizing lingering scent of ... was that ... cotton candy?

Then either to my good fortunes or misfortunes, depending on how you see it, the only free table left in the café was the one beside mine. She set her bag down on the table, put down her coffee, and then eased herself into the seat. Crossing her legs, she sipped her coffee and I envied the hot drink lid her lips were secured to like Romeo envied the glove on Juliet's hand.

I tried not to stare, honest, I tried not to be one of those creepy men watching younger women so I pretended to read my book and drink my own coffee, all the while stealing glances at the beauty beside me.

She lifted the paper cup again and I noticed how slender her fingers were, three out of five of them decorated with silver rings. One of them was a snake that twisted twice around the middle finger of her right hand, the tail resting on her lower knuckle, and the head of the snake reaching toward her middle knuckle.

I watched her take another sip, watching her throat muscles work as she swallowed, and when she shook her hair back, giving me a sweet glimpse of her slender neck in that delectable leather collar, and I knew that I was done for.

I was very busy watching her out of the corner of my eye when a tall man, dressed casually in a button-up blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, black jeans, and leather shoes, came up. I watched as the woman's lips curved into a pleased smile, which didn't disappear when the man leaned down and gave her a faux chaste kiss. They murmured their hellos, her voice soft, submissive, his deep and commanding.

"Ready to go?" he asked, straightening. She only nodded and got to her feet, shouldering her bag. The man smiled, reaching up to briefly loop his finger through the ring on her collar to give it a small tug, before leading her away. Oh sweet whimper. What made it all worse was that the man, the man that had tugged on her collar, the man that obviously commanded her, was my age! He was my god damned age. Another sigh, heavier this time, as I looked towards her table.

Her drink was left on the table, forgotten, with only three or four sips taken from it and a beautifully glossy lip imprint left on the rim of the hot lid.

I looked down at my coffee and at my book. The words, hell, even the letters didn't make much sense to my addled brain and I decided that I wouldn't be leaving my seat for a while, unless I wanted to be the focus of embarrassment and social shame.