He is explaining something or other, elaborating on some small detail, and I shift my gaze, not wanting give away my pretense of hearing it all for the first time. Stupendously huge cups dangle on metal railings above the waitress' head at the cashier — I wait for them to fall.
Sparkling eyes as his lips flap open with each word that tumbles, I try to decipher the glint in his pupils, feeling like a one-way mirror. Tonight I shall be beautiful and a seductress and look cute in my coat.
It's the same. They look at me and see their future in me as if I am a silent oracle, a sentient crystal ball holding the seams to silken secrets they are longing to unfold. I shall be the glass of red wine, that little extra which makes the meal of life complete. The sliver of garnish.
I hold his gaze and lick my fingers. One. At. A. Time.
He has a metaphysical jaw and it drops half way down in front of his chest at the third shirt-button; at the same moment, the coffee in his cup choses to take leave of porcelain and rearranges itself on his lap like an affectionate cat. I feign sympathy and pat his pants with a useless serviette, spreading rather than soaking. In any case, I figure he is due the embarrassment given that he had the nerve to compare my beloved Moleskine to his dollar-notebook.
I shall have more pleasure playing a Mozart for four hands.
Posted by sniffles at December 07, 2002 12:39 AM